“It is great to hear your voice,” Daniel Bilal said. “You made it.”
“Only just,” Price said. “And things have got really weird over here.”
Communications equipment in the safe room connected via a secure line straight to Washington. Price was a little surprised to find that it still worked after so many years, but not at all surprised to find Bilal waiting on the other end of the line. Bilal had been expecting this call.
Bilal was some kind of bigwig in Military Intelligence. Nobody seemed to quite know what, but that was kind of the point for these spy types. He was the one who had authorised this mission.
“What’s happening?” Bilal asked.
“We don’t have much time so let me lay it out for you real quick,” Price said. “You need to call off the airstrike.”
“Too late,” Bilal said. “The scream jets took off about five minutes ago.”
“Stop them,” Price said. “If ACOG attacks Canberra with their new jets, it will start … well, let’s just call it a nuclear war, and ACOG will lose.”
“That’s a moot point,” Bilal said. “In a nuclear war, everyone would lose.”
“Not according to the information we have uncovered,” Price said, and explained briefly about the positronium warheads.
Bilal reflected on that for a while. “That does change things, if it’s true,” he said. “Do we have any verification of this information?”
“No, sir,” Price said. “Except the source. It came from a Bzadian on Azoh’s inner circle.”
“That’s not a good reason to trust the intel. In fact, it may be the opposite,” Bilal said. “Look, I believe you, but I have to convince ACOG, and they’re going to want something more substantial than what you’ve given me. It could be a bluff. It could be a ruse to prevent us using the scream jets. A carrier strike group got hit in Auckland Harbour this morning and ACOG are not going to let the Pukes get away with that.”
“All I know is what I’ve told you,” Price said. “But I honestly believe that if you target Canberra, the free territories are going to be wiped off the face of the Earth.”
“I’ll take it to them,” Bilal said. “Any idea where we would find these bombs?”
“They were placed by Fezerkers,” Price said. “Maybe you can persuade the ones who you captured to talk.”
“If you find out anything else, get back to me straightaway,” Bilal said.
Price looked grimly around at the others. Wall was at a weapons station, studying the controls, reading the help screens; he was nodding and murmuring to himself. Barnard was wearing headphones and listening intently. Monster was staring at the video wall as the screens cycled through different views of the building and its surrounds.
Azoh-zu sat in one of the chairs by the wall, quietly, not fidgeting. He was remarkably calm for an eight-year-old boy, Price thought. Perhaps that was part of his training. He looked over at Price and smiled. Price smiled back, unable to help herself. There was an innocence about the successor to Azoh. Part of it was his age, but it was more than that. It was a kind of purity.
Azoh had gone. Back into the tunnel with Brogan and Chisnall. Price hoped that wasn’t a colossal mistake.
The strangeness, the zoh, came over Chisnall as he followed Azoh through the tunnel. He pushed it aside, afraid of what it meant.
The blue fabric of Azoh’s ceremonial robes billowed in front of him. The robes, so delicate and elegant, were now stained with the dust and dirt of the tunnels. This was no place for a princess, and as much as he understood Azoh’s role in Bzadian society, it was hard for Chisnall not to think of her like that, a princess. A flawless, unblemished beauty, accustomed to a life of perfection and luxury – not a tunnel rat.
Azoh stopped abruptly when they reached the natural cave they had passed through earlier.
“We must hurry,” Chisnall said.
“Unreasonable haste is the path to error,” Azoh said.
“It’s also the path to ‘sorry, too late, we just blew up the planet,’” Brogan said.
“Even so,” Azoh said. She held up an object, the pen from Monster’s medical kit.
“I must ask you an unreasonable request.”
Price looked up to see Barnard staring at her. Barnard took her headphones off. Her face was cold.
“What’s wrong?” Price asked.
Barnard was silent. Price pulled up a chair and sat down at the desk next to her. Monster came and stood behind them.
“The Tsar is dead,” Barnard said.
“Oh no,” Price said. “Oh, please no. You’re sure?”
“Just came over the Puke military radio net. PGZ traffic,” Barnard said. “He’s dead. I don’t know anything more.”
Price felt a cold hand grip her heart. Was it her fault? The Tsar had volunteered, but he was in a poor state to do so. Should she have refused his offer. If she had, might they all now be dead, or captured?
“Jesus, Barnard,” Price said. “I don’t know what to say.”
Barnard looked back at the desk.
“We’ve got a lot of firepower,” she said. “All of it controlled from this room. We should be able to hold off the Pukes for quite a while.”
“I know how much he meant to you,” Price said.
Barnard pointed at the controls. “Bofors autocannons,” she said. “You’ve got two of them, hidden in dormer windows on the main building, and on the old chancery.”
“He really was a hero,” Price said.
“Yes, he was,” Barnard said. “You can only control one gun at a time. If they take out your first, switch to the second. Do you know how to work the controls?”
Price glanced up at Monster, who gave a tiny shake of his head.
“Show me,” Price said.
“It’s a touch screen,” Barnard said. “Touch the target and the gun locks on. You can zoom if you need more accuracy and pan around with gestures.”
“Just like a smartpad,” Price said.
“A little,” Barnard said.
Large red and green buttons at the bottom of the screen controlled the arming and firing. Barnard selected a Bofors gun and armed it. A series of indicators flashed up on the side of the screen: diagnostic functions. They all turned green. The gun was ready to fire. She disarmed it and tried the alternative gun. That also checked out without a problem.
“What about the machine guns?” Price asked.
“They’re automatic,” Barnard said. “You have five of them, scattered around the gardens.” She pointed them out on the console. “When you activate them, they rise up out of the ground and start shooting at anything that moves.”
“Anything?”
“If it moves, it’s a target,” Barnard said.
“Nice,” Monster said.
“I wouldn’t leave them up too long,” Barnard said. “They’re protected by an armoured metal casing but they’ll still be vulnerable. I’d pop them up and down at random. That way the Pukes will never know where you’re going to strike next.”
“Got it,” Price said.
Monster grunted his agreement.
“Barnard,” Price asked. “Are you okay?”
Barnard stared at her coldly. “I’m good, Lieutenant. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just checking,” Price said. She turned back to the controls and studied them. “This is just like playing a video game.”
“Except if die, you no get to respawn and start over,” Monster said.
“No, you don’t,” Barnard agreed.
They dared not use explosives for fear of causing another collapse.
Colonel Kriz clasped her hands behind her back. An old trick to stop herself pulling at the skin on her forearms, regrown after the rotorcraft crash that had killed so many of her colleagues. That was a long time ago and the skin was no longer soft and new, but the habit remained, and the clasping of the hands remained also.
The habit came on much more strongly when she was nervous, and the events of today wen
t way beyond nervousness. They were terrifying.
She had been called to the capital to take over its defence when Nokz’z, who made her skin crawl, was removed from his position. That had meant a trip from Brisbane to Canberra, and Kriz did not fly. She hadn’t since the crash. But the call from Canberra had left no room for argument and, with the help of a powerful sedative, she had made the flight. The anti-sedative that had woken her up at the other end had left her with a mild headache, which added to the tension she was feeling.
She had been thrust into the command of the operation, unsure whether it was because she was a valued and trusted commander, or if the High Council needed a scapegoat. If Azoh could not be rescued, if the infiltrators could not be caught, then it would be on her head.
She stood at the base of the rocky staircase, watching the soldiers work in the confined and dimly lit space, and clasped her hands even more tightly.
Fine rock dust drifted in flat layers through the air of the tunnel but it did not bother Kriz. They all wore full face oxygen masks. The enemy had used a disabling spray in Azoh’s bunker and some kind of powder bullets in the art gallery. The Nzgali were not going to be caught like that again.
The soldiers attacked the concrete and stone rubble with pickaxes and shovels, manhandling large stones backwards, to be passed along a line of workers and spread out along the length of the remaining tunnel.
They worked furiously, but no one knew how far they would have to dig. The collapsed section might be just a metre or so and they could be nearly through it. Or the entire tunnel could have collapsed.
The Angels, with their captive, were holed up in the communications centre. In a secret room that no one knew existed, until now. A rescue mission was being planned. That was surely a big mistake. Assaulting the building would put the life of Azoh in grave danger.
Kriz had said as much to Field Marshall Leozii, and he had agreed with her. But the High Council had voted otherwise. A bunch of old politicians with no grasp of the realities of warfare. The kidnapping of Azoh was seen as slap in the face of all Bzadians and the Bzadian leaders had to be seen to take direct action.
Nokz’z’s plan had been a good one, in Kriz’s view. To enter the building the same way the Angels had, through the tunnel, coming up behind them in a surprise attack. But time was running out. So Kriz waited, and watched. She smiled thinly at one of the workers who quickly looked away and threw himself into the work, redoubled.
Jazki, a worthy but intense young captain, came hurrying back along the tunnel towards her. She was grimy and sweaty, helmetless. Her head was heavily bandaged from the earlier explosion and the bandages were black with rock dust. “Air movement at the top of the pile,” she reported. “We’re almost there.”
Kriz’s radio bleeped, an urgent code. She activated the microphone built into the oxygen mask. “I am Kriz.”
It was Dequorz in the command centre. “We need you back here now!” he said. “Coastal radar stations report enemy jets approaching at hypersonic speeds from the east. Defence forces have just gone to alert level black.”
“The same kind of aircraft as before?” Kriz asked.
“As far as we know,” Dequorz said. “We are scrambling all air defences in the vicinity.”
“I am on my way,” Kriz said and hung up. To Jazki she said, “Call me as soon as you are through.”
They reached the cross tunnel. An avalanche of rock and rubble had flowed across the passageway, leaving little room for them to climb through. Chisnall could hear the sounds of hammering and scraping from the other side. It sounded close. Even as he watched, a large stone fell from the top of the pile, bouncing and skidding down the uneven slope.
“Come on,” he said. “Hurry.”
He took Azoh’s hand and helped her climb, trying to avoid the jagged edges of the broken rock. They had to crawl over the last bit, squeezing below the low ceiling of the tunnel, then skidding down the other side.
He tried to reach Price on the com, but the rock of the tunnel blocked any chance of a signal. Once they reached the far side of the rubble, he did not look back and so he didn’t notice the small insect-like creature that emerged from the rock pile. It crawled on legs of thin wire through a small gap between the rocks. It turned one way, then the other. Sensing movement, filmy, translucent wings unfolded from its crystalline thorax and it hummed into the air.
The Vaza led the way, following a map that she had printed.
She hurried across the wooden floors of the old building to a stairway that led down to a basement.
The basement was vast and divided into a maze of rooms and corridors. Several times the Vaza stopped, studied her map again and backtracked where necessary.
“Here,” she said at last, arriving at a small, nondescript office.
“Where?” Nokz’z asked.
“That is not clear,” the Vaza replied. “But the tunnel emerges in this room.”
Nokz’z looked around. There were no obvious doors leading from the room. The floor was wooden, with no sign of trapdoors, or even a break where a tunnel could emerge.
“You are sure?” he asked.
The Vaza nodded.
“Then we wait,” Nokz’z said.
“You are sure that they will use this tunnel?” the Vaza asked.
“They cannot return to the Congress,” Nokz’z said. “The tunnel is blocked and crawling with our troops. The communications centre is surrounded. They must come here. They have nowhere else to go.”
He watched her closely for a moment.
“Vaza.”
“Yes, Colonel,” she said.
“Your fortunes are closely tied to mine,” he said.
“Of course,” she said.
“When I succeed, you succeed with me,” he said. “But when I fail, you must suffer because of me.”
She moved to him and placed her hands on his shoulders.
“I do not want you to suffer,” Nokz’z said.
“I would have it no other way,” she said.
ASSAULT
[1100 HOURS LOCAL TIME]
[OLD US EMBASSY, CANBERRA]
“ACOG are taking your request under advisement.” Bilal sounded worried and frustrated on the speaker.
“Request!” Barnard exploded. “It’s not a request. Don’t they understand that they are picking a fight they can’t possibly win?”
“Barnard’s right,” Price said. “It’s mass suicide.”
“I explained it in words of one syllable,” Bilal said. “They’re asking for proof, but frankly, the impression I got was that ACOG are so determined to show off their new military might, to teach the Bzadians a lesson and tear them a new asshole, that they won’t change their minds.”
“Proof?” Price said.
“They are looking for these bombs of yours,” Bilal said. “They’re interrogating all the captured Fezerkers. They are taking this seriously.”
“Not seriously enough,” Price said.
“I’ll keep trying,” Bilal said. “What’s your plan? What are you doing with Azoh?”
“Azoh seems to believe that if she addresses the High Council, she can convince them not to retaliate.” Price said. “Chisnall and Brogan are trying to get her there.”
“Do you trust her? Is she on our side?”
“She’s on nobody’s side,” Barnard said. “She’s Azoh.”
“Pukes moving up to the main gates,” Wall yelled.
“Gotta go,” Price said. She cut off the call. “Okay, kids, time we showed them our teeth and claws. Lock the gates and arm the weapons.”
“Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” Barnard said.
“What?” Price asked.
“Never mind,” Barnard said. “Here they come.”
The big screens showed the compound and its grounds from all angles. The gardens, once manicured, were now overgrown under the reign of the Bzadians: the tennis court, the swimming pool, emptied and disused.
The black-sui
ted Nzgali and the grey uniformed regular soldiers were advancing steadily across the open ground, using what shelter they could find: trees, shrubs, fences. Some glided across the ground on T-boards.
“Let them keep coming,” Price said. “Let them think this is going to be easy. We’ll start with the machine guns and keep the Bofors as an ace up our sleeves.”
Still the tide of Bzadian soldiers flowed towards the old ambassador’s residence.
“Hold your fire,” Price murmured. “A little further.”
The first of the soldiers was almost at the doors when Price said, “Now!’”
The chatter of machine guns came about three seconds later. On the video screens they could see circular plugs of grass rise up out of the lawn, at first unnoticed by the Bzadian troops, then the stream of fire as the high velocity bullets squirted from the muzzles.
Soldiers fell. Some merely stunned, protected by their armour. Others injured.
As soon as the Bzadians identified the threat, it was gone. The pods melded seamlessly back into the grass, leaving just a drifting pall of smoke, a ghostly presence over the battlefield.
The alien soldiers scanned around desperately, seeking targets, trying to return fire. But there was nothing to fire at.
“Count to three,” Price said. “Now.”
Just as the soldiers began to restore some sort of order, a different set of guns emerged and the thunder began again.
There were clear signs of panic among the regular soldiers, but the Nzgali were too good for that. They were calm and controlled under fire. Price nearly lost a pod when a Nzgali grenade exploded on the ground just after she retracted the pod.
A third set of pods opened up and the troops retreated; unsure where the next attack would come from, they dragged their wounded and their unconscious, perhaps dead, comrades with them.
“Boo-yah!” Monster cried.
“They’ll be back,” Price said. “And it won’t be so easy next time.”
“Scream Leader to Scream Team, we got a lot of wildlife ahead of us,” Shaw said. They had just crossed the coastline and her radar scope was bright with targets. The air was uneven and the cockpit of her jet was jolting around like a car on an old dirt track. She glanced out at the wings, above and below the plane, and wondered exactly how much of this they could take. The scream jets had been developed in furious haste, without the usual time for testing and refining. If the wings were going to fail, now was when they would find out. And at mach 5, ejection was not an option.
Vengeance Page 19
