Task Force (11 page)

“I’ll need authentication on this.”

“Of course,” Chisnall said. “Please send the verification codes.”

A series of numbers appeared at the bottom of the screen. The Tsar punched them into the key generator and a response code appeared. Human hackers had cracked the Bzadian authentication codes many months before.

Chisnall typed the response into a keypad, and Kriz said, “Verification completed at 00:25 hours.”

“Did your security teams check the ship?” Kriz asked.

“Yes, they boarded and searched it,” Chisnall said. “There appeared to have been some kind of explosion. Some of the crew were injured, but not badly.” He had to suppress a smile. He was being asked to verify his own lies.

“I have been trying to reach the ship again,” Kriz said, “but there is no response.”

Chisnall’s inner smile disappeared. Of course Kriz would check back in with the ship. He should have anticipated that.

“That is strange,” he said awkwardly.

“Yes,” Kriz said. “Very strange. Where is your security team now?”

The Tsar stepped up behind him, into the range of the video monitor.

“We have had a report from the wharf,” he said. He seemed relaxed and natural. “They have shut down the ship’s power while they try to repair the equipment.”

“I see. Please ask them to contact me when their radio is active again,” Kriz said, making another note.

“That might be a few hours away,” the Tsar said. “The damage was quite severe.”

“As soon as possible, please,” Kriz said.

“Of course,” Chisnall said.

There was a pause; then Kriz frowned. “You are sure everything is okay?”

“Everything is fine,” Chisnall said with a smile. “The radar and sonar scopes are clear. I do not think the scumbugz will try to invade today.”

Kriz laughed and broke the connection.

“Think she believed us?” the Tsar asked.

“I think so,” Chisnall said.

“And if she didn’t?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Chisnall said, and added, “Thanks for backing me up just then.”

“You didn’t need me,” the Tsar said. “You had everything under control.”

No, I didn’t
, Chisnall thought. The Tsar was a fluent liar and a good actor. Too good.

Chisnall keyed his comm. “Monster, how’s Price?”

“She okay,” came the reply.

“Is she able to move?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, everyone meet at the wharf,” Chisnall said. “We’re Oscar Mike in five.”

THE SPEEDBOAT CAME ASHORE AT THE PORT OF BRISBANE
, drifting quietly below rusting cranes, unused since the Bzadians took over Australia. There the Angels off-loaded the rest of their equipment before pulling the bung from the boat and pushing it back offshore, where it settled and gradually sank.

Chisnall powered up his T-board, the Bzadian army’s “personal transportation device.” A T-shaped platform, with two ball-type wheels at the front and one at the back, it was powered by a small but silent motor. You rode it like a skateboard. Pressure from the left or right of the front foot steered the device. Pressing on the ball of the rear foot increased speed, and releasing it applied braking. The rubberized wheels were smooth and quiet. The hum of the other Angels’ T-boards made a low chorus around him as they tested their boards.

The Angels had changed into standard Bzadian uniforms with markings that identified them as a security patrol. They waited on the boardwalk at a small marina, desolate and empty of the yachts and powered craft that would once have filled its long, many-jointed jetties. Chisnall tried sitting on the platform of his T-board, but that was uncomfortable, so he ended up sitting on a low grassy bank that adjoined the boardwalk. The others followed his lead, except for Wilton, who paced back and forth, burning off some nerves.

The lights of the city stained the surface of the water with a spectrum of colored bands reaching across the river toward them. Occasionally, a light breeze would ruffle the picture, scattering the tidy lines into a kaleidoscope of colored dots.

“Listen up,” Chisnall said, gesturing at the river. “In a few minutes the entire task force is going to glide right by. They need to get all the way to Ipswich undetected. We’re going to make sure that happens.”

“We’re gonna be their guardian angels,” Price said.

“That’s right,” Chisnall said. “Any Puke shows too much interest, take him down quickly and quietly. We’ve got the right side of the river and the Demons are handling the left. Clear?”

“Game on,” the Tsar said.

“Boo-yah,” Wilton said.

“Demons had better get power off soon,” Monster murmured.

Chisnall glanced back at the city. The central business district made a river of light against the night sky.

“Maybe they’re waiting until the task force gets closer,” he said.

“They’re cutting it close,” Wilton said.

Downriver, a low, light mist was spreading and settling on the water on either side of the wreck of the HMAS
Australia
. Vague shapes, low and black, the turrets of the task force vehicles, moved within the mist. Chisnall had to strain his eyes to make them out. Good. To a casual observer they would be all but invisible.

But it wouldn’t be as easy when they reached the city. Not if the lights were still on.

He listened carefully, despite the machinery grinding through the water; the sound on the surface of the river was no more than a low thrum.

After the strain of the last few hours, sitting on the grassy bank by the river in the soft reflected glow of the city lights seemed peaceful, as if they were on holiday, not on a life-and-death mission. The Tsar seemed the most relaxed of all. He began to sing a highly profane song, the lyrics of which concerned the size of Bzadian genitalia.

Wilton joined in, but with little enthusiasm.

The wreck of the
Australia
had now disappeared into the unnatural mist. It reminded Chisnall of the tendrils of fog that had been creeping from the plant room back on the island. A room full of frozen Bzadian soldiers and one very sick Angel. Price seemed to have suffered no long-lasting effects, which was a relief.

Wilton had found some pebbles and was tossing them into
the water. Each splash, although soft, made Chisnall jump. He wanted to tell Wilton to stop, but that would make him seem on edge. The Tsar was checking and calibrating his scope, a handheld radar system carried by Bzadian soldiers.

“That was cool when that ship tried to bomb us and blew itself up instead,” Wilton said. “How lucky was that!”

“Real lucky.” Price caught Chisnall’s eye, and he smiled.

“That was some pretty fancy shooting at the wharf, Wilton,” Chisnall said.

“At that range it was like hitting a barn door with a shotgun,” Wilton said.

“And it was pretty smart thinking, shooting the Puke spray can,” Chisnall said to Price.

“Lucky shot,” Price said. “Someone should invent Puke spray grenades.”

“Like smoke grenades, but filled with Puke spray,” the Tsar agreed. “Great idea.”

“Isn’t that chemical warfare?” Barnard asked. Her eyes, too, were on the mist that disguised the approaching fleet.

“What’s the difference if we spray it in their faces or let off a gas grenade?” Price asked.

“There’re laws against chemical warfare,” Barnard said. “Otherwise, if we do it to them, next thing they’re doing it to us.”

“Can’t shoot ’em, can’t gas ’em—what do they expect us to do, hug them to death?” Wilton asked. He skimmed a pebble out across the river. It bounced once, then sank.

“Monster could fart on them,” Price said.

“That still counts as chemical warfare,” Chisnall said.

“Yeah, sure,” the Tsar said. “We’re on the verge of being wiped off the planet, but let’s not break the rules.” He put away the scope and lay backward on the grassy bank and shut his eyes. He appeared relaxed, but Chisnall wasn’t fooled.

“We’ll wipe
them
off the planet,” Wilton said. “It’s our frigging planet.”

“Not if they get across the Bering Strait,” Price said.

“We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Chisnall said. “And it won’t.”

“Boo-yah,” Wilton said.

“If the mission succeeds,” Barnard said, staring out over the water.

“It will,” Chisnall said, his jaw firmly set.

“You’re sure about this?” Barnard asked, still without looking at him, or anyone.

“It has to,” Chisnall said. Failure was not an option he could consider.

“It is the way things are meant to be,” Monster said.

“Say what?” the Tsar said.

“Monster believes that everything happens for a reason,” Price said.

“Everything happens because it happens,” Barnard said. “There’s no reason. There’s no grand plan.”

“The universe is a river flowing to its destination,” Monster said. “We are merely drifting on the current.”

Barnard turned to him. The first time she had looked at any of them.

“No, Monster. See that big brown thing full of water down
there? That’s a river,” she said, gesturing at it. “The universe is a big black thing full of stars.”

“If the universe is flowing like a river,” the Tsar said, “then what the hell are we doing here? If everything is predestined, then we can’t change anything. We should go home and let the universe get on with it.”

Wilton tossed a larger stone into the river and they watched as the ripples spread, then dissipated.

“It’d be a lot less aggravation,” Price said.

“Every one of us who puts a toe in a river changes the flow of the water, just slightly,” Monster said.

“Did he get dropped on his head at Uluru?” the Tsar asked.

Chisnall laughed, but the Tsar wasn’t wrong. Monster had changed since Uluru. They had all changed.

The mist was almost upon them now, although it was confined to the middle of the river, pouring from tubes atop the MPCs.

“Time to get our toes wet,” Chisnall said.

“Where the hell are those goddamn Demons?” Price muttered, and as if on cue, the lights in the city went out. The tall buildings on either side of the river, which had been lit in a thousand tiny square patches, were now silhouettes, black against the black of the sky.

The river, which had seemed to pulse with an internal life force, now seemed dead—a snaky void ensnared by the banks that rose on either side.

As the first of the vehicles reached their position, Chisnall stood and powered up his T-board again.

“We are Oscar Mike,” he said softly. “The front door is open. Let’s see if we can keep it that way.”

In the Coastal Defense Center in the old Victoria Barracks building, Major Zara Kriz debated with herself whether to raise the alert level, putting ready reaction forces on standby, or to wait for more information. Raising the alert level would get several high-ranking officers out of bed, and the first thing they would ask her was why.

And to tell the truth, she didn’t know why. An accident on a ship. A power outage at the SONRAD station. A loss of communication with the ship. All had perfectly reasonable explanations, but added together they started to create a disturbing picture.

She decided to question Chizel, the operator at the SONRAD station, a little more thoroughly. That might set her mind at rest. Kriz punched the buttons on her video screen to place the call.

The Bzadian city slept, but it was not dead, and, as with human cities, there seemed to be a wide range of Bzadians who needed to be out and about in the middle of the night. Delivery trucks passed, splashing them with light, the drivers completely unaware of the six human teenagers in Bzadian army uniforms who prowled through the heart of the city.

“Demon One, this is Angel One. How copy?” Chisnall said.

The comm channel crackled into life. “Hey, Varmint, there’s noises on the baby monitor,” a voice said.

“Status check, Demon One,” Chisnall said with a sigh.

“All clear over here,” Varmint said. “Nine Pukes down, and counting. What’s your score?”

Chisnall shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. This was the first time they had undertaken a combined mission with the Demons, and he was finding he didn’t really like their way of doing things.

“It’s not a contest, Varmint, and if you leave a trail of bodies behind you, somebody might stumble over one. Only take them out if there’s no other way. You know the rules of engagement.”

“So y’all are way behind.” Varmint laughed. “Don’t worry, you still got time.”

The Tsar broke in, imitating and exaggerating Varmint’s Southern accent. “By golly, Varmint, I guess y’all must be better than us at this kind of thing. We’ll jes’ watch what y’all are doing and try to learn something.”

“Get back to your mission, all of you,” Chisnall said.

“Someone’s getting cranky,” Varmint said.

Chisnall flicked off the channel, gritting his teeth in frustration. Possibly the most important mission of the war and the Demons seemed to think it was some kind of joke.

“We’re never going to win this war with morons like that on our side,” the Tsar said.

“Don’t worry about them,” Chisnall said. “Concentrate on
our part of the mission. We’re in the heart of enemy territory. From now on we walk like Pukes, we talk like Pukes, we think like Pukes.”

“We eat like Pukes,” Wilton added.

“We fart like Pukes.” Monster grinned.

“That too,” Chisnall said.

“If we could think like Pukes, this war would already be over,” Barnard said, almost to herself.

Kriz hung up the phone and clasped her hands to stop herself from rubbing at the skin on her arm, which was turning red and rough.

There had been no reply at the SONRAD station.

Could it be somehow due to the blackout? A failure at an electricity substation had caused a ripple effect that had taken down the entire power grid? But SONRAD had backup power. Unless it had failed again.

And while she was trying to contact SONRAD, a call had come in from a restaurant owner. Nanzi, one of her staff, had put it through.