Task Force (19 page)

“We’ll take you with us as far as the Warrego Highway,” Fairbrother said. He pointed to the map again. “Aerial footage shows a few vehicles parked around these buildings, some kind of a produce market. We’ll detour a little and drop you off there. Angel Team and Demon Team each appropriate one or two of the cars. Angels take the western route up to Lowood. Go fast. I need that hill out of action before we come rolling up the highway.”

“And the Demons?” Varmint asked.

“You’ll take the eastern route up to Wivenhoe.”

“What about extraction?” Chisnall asked.

“Hervey Bay, up on the Sunshine Coast. A submarine will pick you up offshore. Full operational orders and battle maps have been sent to your wrist computer. Now get out of here.”

Even as he said it, Chisnall’s wrist computer vibrated with incoming data.

“Yes, sir,” Chisnall said.

“Don’t balls this one up, Chisnall.”

“No, sir,” Chisnall replied.

The Angel Team’s MPC smelled of oil. It had been used to transport the ramps for the vehicles to exit the river. Bench seats folded down from the walls inside and the interior was lit with low red lighting. A lever operated the ramp, which was also the rear door. It lifted up smoothly and locked into place.

The smell reminded Chisnall of the basement garage at home. His father had owned a classic car, a 1960 Thunderbird convertible. He was always working on it.

The thought of that car made Chisnall suddenly wish he was anywhere else except here. Life had seemed so simple. The war had been a distant far-off conflict, and despite the coverage saturating the TV and online news, it hadn’t seemed like something that would affect him personally.

But it didn’t get much more personal than this. Here he was, right in the thick of things, again. With people who relied on him. Who depended on him to make the right decision. He shut his eyes and breathed in the oily smell, taking himself back for a moment to that garage. To the long red car with the hood up, and his father’s legs sticking out from underneath.

Then he opened his eyes again, and the memory was gone. All that existed was the here and now. The danger. The mission. The team.

Their driver was a cheerful and extremely talkative PFC,
a native of Boston, judging by his accent. He grinned at them through the small metal grille that separated the driver’s cab from the troop compartment.

“It’s a real honor to be driving you,” the driver said. “Don’t mind if I say so.”

“Thanks,” Chisnall said, unhooking his coil-gun before taking his seat.

“I heard about what you Angels did, from one of the grunts who got out,” the driver said. “We think you guys are awesome.”

“Out of Uluru?” Chisnall asked, slightly confused.

“Hokkaido,” the driver said.

“Of course,” Chisnall said, raising an eyebrow at the Tsar. The Tsar held his gaze but did not change his expression.

“My kid brother is doing the Angel training,” the driver said. “You guys got any tips for him?”

“Get out while he still can,” Price said.

“Amen to that,” the Tsar said, and they both laughed.

“What’s his name?” Chisnall asked.

“Hayden,” the driver said. “Hayden Wall.”

“I’ll look out for him when we get back,” Chisnall said.

“
If
we get back,” Barnard said.

“Don’t you worry about that,” the driver said. “You got the best driver in the division. I’ll get you there safe and sound. That’s a promise.”

“Much appreciated,” Chisnall said.

The engine started with a roar but the MPC didn’t move. It sat idling, waiting its turn. They were the second last in line,
behind the Demons and in front of an MPC full of tough Canadian Black Devils. Through the bulletproof glass of the portholes in the side, Chisnall saw the Demons’ vehicle rumble forward; then there was a lurch and they began to follow.

Chisnall put his head back against the headrest, shutting his eyes. Waves of exhaustion swept over him. He had tried to sleep on the submarine the previous day, but even with the help of sleeping tablets, it had not come easily. The whole night had been one of constant tension and hard physical slog, and this was the first time since they had launched from the submarine that he hadn’t had to be on the utmost alert, every sense, every brain cell operating at maximum to try and achieve the impossible.

Now his brain was trying to shut down, to rest and repair itself. As was his body. The body armor had saved him from a number of bullets in the forest, but the impact of the bullets had left huge painful bruises. He had new armor on now, as the last was shattered and useless. His ribs were aching but manageable, thanks to some painkillers, which Monster had supplied. Perhaps they were contributing to the waves of sleep that now flooded through his brain.

The MPC quickly picked up speed. The operation’s planners had always known it would be a race to get to Lowood once the veil of secrecy was lifted, and after the delays at the river, time was now the critical issue. They had to reach Lowood before the Bzadians could mobilize their defenses.

It was a race to the finish.

Price watched Chisnall on the other side of the MPC. He had been sleeping for a while, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, his mouth slightly open. He was even snoring, although it was more of a mild purr than a deep growl like her father’s.

“Death to Azoh?” the Tsar said. “What was that all about, Wilton?”

Price smiled to herself. Somehow, at the time, in the smoky thunder of the battle in the forest, it had seemed appropriate.

“I just said the first thing that came to mind.” Wilton laughed, too, a little embarrassed.

“You wild man,” the Tsar said. “I like it!” He reached over for a high five. “Death to Azoh!”

“Death to Azoh,” Price murmured.

“Do you even know what Azoh is?” Barnard asked.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell us,” Price said.

“Some kind of Puke god,” the Tsar said.

“It’s the Puke leader,” Wilton said.

Barnard shook her head.

“Who cares? Death to Azoh, whoever he is, and thank our God for the Demons back in the forest,” the Tsar said.

“It shouldn’t have got to that stage,” Price said. “It wouldn’t have if we’d had real bullets.”

“It would not have got to that stage if the LT had let me run the forward fire control and concentrated on defending our position,” Barnard said.

There was an icy silence.

“Shut it, Barnard,” Price said. “The problem was the bullets, not the LT.”
Mostly
.

“Stupid tree-hugging lefties,” Wilton said. “Give me some real bullets, an M110, and put me within half a klick of Azoh. War’s over, we all go home, and I get to star in Hollywood movies about my life.”

“Which shows how little you understand about Azoh,” Barnard said.

Chisnall’s eyes opened at that point and he looked vaguely around the cabin before they slid shut again.

The vehicle was built for eighteen, and there were only six of them, so there was plenty of space. Price thought about laying Chisnall down across a few seats but worried that doing so would wake him up.

She reached over and switched off his comm so it wouldn’t disturb him.

Monster was watching her, and he gave her a smile and nod of approval. She looked away without returning the smile. There was no point in encouraging him.

The Tsar was watching her too. “Is the Big Dog asleep?” he asked.

“Lieutenant Chisnall is asleep, yes,” Price said. “And he deserves it.”

“No argument from me,” the Tsar said. “No need to leap to his defense.” He unhooked his weapon and checked the ammunition. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“What are you saying?” Price asked.

“Not like that,” the Tsar said, reloading his weapon. “I just meant you’ve known him a long time and you like him.”

“He does his job. I do mine,” Price said.

“Sounds a bit harsh,” the Tsar said. “I thought you were friends.”

“I get on fine with him,” Price said. “But take a tip, newbie. Don’t get too close to anyone. They might not be around all that long.”

“Good advice, sweetheart, but I ain’t no newbie,” the Tsar said.

“No, you’re the Hero of Hokkaido,” Barnard said.

“Oh, sure, you can spit on it if you want to,” the Tsar said, “but I earned that medal.”

“Yeah, well, Price won the VC at Uluru, but you don’t hear her shouting about it,” Wilton said.

“What’s that, some little New Zealand medal?” the Tsar said.

“Yeah, just some little New Zealand medal,” Price said without looking up.

“No—” Wilton started.

“Just leave it at that,” Price said, glaring at him.

“Whatever,” the Tsar said. “But I ain’t no newbie. I—”

Whatever he was about to say, he never got the chance. His words were cut off midsentence by the sound of an explosion from the front of the convoy. Then another.

And another.

“TURN IT AROUND! TURN IT AROUND!” CHISNALL YELLED.

“I’m trying!” the driver yelled back through the grille.

The way ahead was blocked. The column was at a standstill and at the mercy of attackers, hidden deep within the forest on either side. Fairbrother had given the order to retreat, to reverse their course and get out of the ambush that the forest had become.

Another explosion sounded from the head of the column, a thunderclap and a momentary flash of light that coincided with screams on the comm. Thick, oily black smoke billowed, a pungent aroma of death.

The MPCs’ turrets were swiveling, and a torrent of bullets was pouring into the forest. Trees shuddered. Some toppled.
The tanks’ big guns boomed, over and over again, but the firing from the forest did not diminish.

“Come on!” Chisnall yelled.

The big tires spun, gripped, and the back end fishtailed a little as the MPC headed back down the road. They were following the Canadian Black Devils, who had been the rearguard of the convoy and who were now, by virtue of the turn, the lead vehicle.

To the left and the right of the MPC, the forest was spitting fire and metal. The sides of the MPC rang constantly from the impact of the rounds. Through the grille and out through the windshield, Chisnall could see the Canadian MPC shuddering as heavy machine-gun rounds slammed into it.

The thick glass of the porthole beside his head cracked and starred, once, twice, three times. He ducked instinctively. Hot shell casings landed on the roof as the thudding sound of the fifty-cal came from above them.

“How did they know we were coming through there?” Price asked, her coil-gun in her hands, ready to fire but useless inside the MPC. For a second Chisnall wished the vehicle had gun-ports, like on old sailing ships, so they could return fire instead of sitting uselessly inside the vehicle.

“I don’t know,” Chisnall said.

“Why were we taking tanks through a forest?” Barnard asked. “You don’t take tanks through a forest if there’s another option. Basic tactics! Tanks are easy targets when the enemy can get up close. Why were we going that way? We could have gone around.”

“I don’t know that either,” Chisnall said.

The porthole by his head shattered, blowing glass across the inside of the vehicle. Price ducked, protecting her face with her arm. One direct hit too many, Chisnall thought. The glass could only take so much. He hoped the armored sides of the vehicle would fare better.

He glanced up at the broken window. Now it
was
a gun-port. Chisnall stood, aiming his coil-gun out the window, and ripped off an entire magazine into the forest. Whether he hit anything he didn’t know. The explosion and the screech of tires were simultaneous as the wheels of the MPC locked up. Peering through the small metal grille at the front of the vehicle, Chisnall caught a glimpse of the Canadian MPC in midair, fire and smoke billowing underneath it as it landed on shredded tires.

“Mines!” Monster yelled as their own vehicle slewed to one side.

The Angels were thrown forward. Barnard’s helmet smashed into Chisnall’s head, and only his own helmet saved him from a knockout blow. The back of the MPC lifted as it braked. Chisnall had just enough time to wonder how the Bzadians had managed to lay a minefield so quickly, and how lucky they were not to have hit one, when there was a roar and a flash of heat and light from the front of the vehicle and flames shot through the grille. In slow motion, the world turned topsy-turvy and smoke was everywhere and there was a leg lying over his face.

The MPC was on its side. He could tell from the seats that
had appeared on the ceiling and the fact that he was now lying on his back.

It was Price’s leg that covered his face and he was greatly relieved when it moved.

“Monster! Monster!” he yelled, unable to see his friend through the smoke. Talking, however, forced him to breathe, and breathing brought in lung-gripping mouthfuls of acrid black air, choking him.

“The Monster is here.” Monster surged past him, to the rear of the MPC.