Task Force (17 page)

“There may be some kind of activity up ahead, opposite the mall,” Zzaker said. “Just coming into range now. There’s something in the river too. I’m going in for a closer look.”

“No!” Kriz yelled, but she was far too late.

The video feed came into focus: the soldiers scurrying around on the shore; the vehicles starting to line up in the adjacent parking lot; the long line of vehicles still semisubmerged in the river.

“Full alert!” Kriz yelled at Nanzi. To the speaker on the wall she shouted, “Get out of there!”

A bright star blossomed in the middle of the video screen, growing larger and larger.

Zzaker’s voice on the radio, no longer directed at Kriz: “Incoming! Countermeasures! Evasive maneuvers.”

The image on the screen swung wildly as the gimbal-mounted cameras struggled to cope with the violent movements of the aircraft. The bright dot grew, drawing a fiery pattern in the middle of the screen. It filled the screen just before it all went blank.

Half a second later they heard the thunderclap of sound, rattling the windows of the command center.

“Who do I call?” Nanzi cried.

“Everyone,” Kriz said distantly.

“
THIS VERY NOT GOOD
,”
MONSTER SAID
.

They were still on the eastern slope of the small wooded hill, on the ridgeline, with a clear view of the huge Amberley Air Base slumbering away below them.

But now, the awakening of the air base was as dramatic as it was sudden.

Floodlights blared into life. The runways became great glowing strips. The hangar doors began to open. At the barracks, transportation vehicles were starting up, ready to bring pilots and ground crews to the waiting rows of jets and rotorcraft.

Chisnall felt bile rise into his throat as he realized what that meant for the men and women of the task force, stuck back at the river.

“Angel One to Task Force Actual,” Chisnall said. “Major
activity at Target Bravo. I repeat, major activity at Target Bravo.”

“Solid copy, Angel One.” It was Colonel Fairbrother, the task force commander. A gray-haired marine, about fifty years old, he had served in the British Army until its remains had been absorbed into the US Army and Marine Corps. Regarded by some as a brilliant commander and by others (mostly Americans) as an eccentric, he was renowned for wearing a sword into battle. Actually, it was a cavalry sabre, and it was not merely ceremonial. According to legend, he had used it on more than one occasion.

Fairbrother said, “We knew this would happen sooner or later. Now let’s get those bloody vehicles out of that bloody river before the entire bloody Bzadian air force gets here.”

“There’s no time,” Price said, her eyes fixed on the airfield. “Those first fast movers will be off the ground within five mikes.”

“Task Force Actual, anticipate enemy aerial activity, your sector, five mikes,” Chisnall said.

“Five mikes! Angel One, we need more time. Is there anything you can do?”

“We’ll try, sir,” Chisnall said, without any idea of what his team could do against the power and size of the forces arrayed below.

Security forces were scrambling to protect the perimeter of the air base. Prepared defensive positions and gun towers were coming to life as Bzadian soldiers, some still pulling on their uniforms, hurried into place.

A low growl came from the engines of the Type Ones in the first row. The engines auto-started to warm up before takeoff.

“Angel One to Task Force Actual, we have prestart initiation on Type Ones,” Chisnall said.

“Solid copy, Angel One.” It was the comm officer’s voice that came back to him.

“We have to get down there and do something,” Price said. “Or this operation is over right now.”

“Do what?” Chisnall asked. “We’d never even breach the perimeter.”

“Even if we could take out the defenses and get past the security fence, we’d be taking on jets with puffer rounds,” Wilton said.

“If we don’t do something, you can wave the operation bye-bye,” the Tsar said.

“What are you suggesting? The Charge of the Light Brigade?” Chisnall said. “It’s suicide.”

“It’s suicide either way,” the Tsar said. “At least we go out fighting!”

“Are the guns emplaced yet?” Barnard asked.

“The what?” Price asked.

“The artillery. The light-guns. Are they emplaced yet?”

Chisnall caught her drift. “Task Force Actual, this is Angel One.”

“Not now, Angel One, we’re busy.”

“Urgent break-in, Task Force Actual, highest priority.”

“Go ahead, Angel One.”

“Are the light-guns emplaced yet?”

There was a brief pause while she checked. She came back quickly. “Emplaced and finishing calibration, but the FFC is still here.”

The FFC was the forward fire control, without which the artillery was pretty much shooting blind. Usually a forward observation post would feed information back to the artillery battery about where the rounds were falling, enabling them to adjust fire.

“Task Force Actual, suggest begin bombardment immediately,” Chisnall said. “We will provide forward fire control.”

There was a brief silence on the radio while discussion took place at the other end; then Fairbrother again picked up the microphone. “They’ll start firing within a few seconds. You call it in. Make ’em count, Angel One. You’re all we’ve got.”

“Take out the center of the cross,” Barnard said, pointing to where the two runways crossed each other. “The Pukes use multiple runways for fast takeoffs. But if we can take out the cross, it’ll knock both runways out at once.”

A roll of thunder came from behind them. The first artillery shells were already screaming over their heads.

Chisnall switched to the fire support channel.

“Artillery Support, this is Angel One.”

“Solid copy, Angel One, firing for range and angle, will adjust on your say. You call the shots.”

The screaming sound turned into a whistling roar, and the high-explosive rounds landed in a tight bracket on the perimeter fence line, dirt and concrete erupting into the air, destroying one of the guard towers but leaving the runways untouched.

Chisnall hesitated, trying to estimate distances and angles. They trained for this, but it was the first time he had ever used it in the field.

“Let me do it, LT,” Barnard said.

“I’ve got it,” Chisnall said.

“Call the shots, Angel One,” the artilleryman said in his ear. “Call the shots.”

“LT, I can do this,” Barnard said.

“I got this!”

Another round of shells whistled overhead, landing in almost the same place as the first.

“Fifty and a ton, LT!” Barnard yelled over of the roar of the explosions. “Tell them, LT!”

“Adjust forward fifty meters, left a hundred meters,” Chisnall said.

In the distance behind them, artillery thundered again, followed by the screaming shells overhead. This time the impact was almost on target, landing in an empty field next to the apex of the crossed runways.

At the northern and western ends of the runway, the first two fast movers had lined up for takeoff. The first began to accelerate with the roar of engines and tongues of fire from the afterburners. After a few seconds, the jet on the western runway did the same. Already a third jet was lining up on the northern runway.

“Adjust forward ten, right twenty!” Chisnall yelled. “Fire for effect. Now, now, now!”

The Bzadian jets were streaking forward, a few seconds apart. The first was nose up, ready to lift off. Behind them, the next jets were starting to move. Chisnall had only once before seen the precision of the Bzadian air force in action, two lines of jets lifting off the deck almost as one, fitting together as closely as a zipper.

But the next round of shells was already falling. The edge of the runway exploded, right in the middle of the cross, dirt and tarmac spewing into the air beside the wingtip of the leftmost of the fast movers. The shock wave lifted the wing of the jet, the other wing smashing into the ground, and the whole craft cartwheeled, a tangled fiery mess of steel and burning fuel spinning uncontrollably into a neat row of rotorcraft parked near the runway, scattering them like bowling pins. More explosions came as the rotorcraft burst into flames, the effect rippling out through the massed ranks as craft after craft exploded. The second jet, on the western runway, tried to lift up to avoid the craters that had suddenly appeared, but it didn’t have enough wing speed. It hopped up into the air for a few meters, but then the back wheels crashed down and clipped the edge of one of the craters, the jet breaking in two as it slammed into the runway in a ball of fire.

The next two planes, already committed to the takeoff, added to the inferno, now completely blocking both runways. The following jets cut back their engines, with nowhere to go.

“Right on target. Commence spread, right fifty meters,” Chisnall said.

Thunder and lightning from behind them and the runway began to dance as a series of explosions rippled down the centerline.

“Expect company,” the Tsar said.

Chisnall switched his gaze to the perimeter. Gates had opened and a stream of soldiers was emerging at speed, scattering around the surrounding area in teams of four.

“They know there’s a forward fire control somewhere,” Chisnall said.

“They don’t know where,” the Tsar said.

“Not yet,” Wilton muttered.

“LT, I can take over the FFC,” Barnard said. “It’s going to get real busy here real quick.”

“It’s okay, Barnard,” Chisnall said. “I got it covered.”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, LT. We’ll worry about the soldiers,” Price said, her coil-gun springing into her arms. She rested on the earth mound that was the top of the ridge and took careful aim. “Nobody fires until I do. We’re not going to give away our position until we know they’ve definitely located us.”

“Adjust fifty left, forward one hundred,” Chisnall said, focusing only on the air base below him.

The immediate danger from the fast movers was gone. The jets couldn’t take off on a runway that was now a shredded wasteland of flaming metal, broken tarmac, and piles of dirt. He walked the artillery onto a field full of rotorcraft that was buzzing, building up blade speed for liftoff.

“Right on target,” Chisnall said as the first shells fell in the center of the field. “Use as center, radial spread eighty meters.”

The field filled with smoke and flames, and the air shuddered with the scream of tortured metal as rotor blades fractured and disintegrated. Rotorcraft leaped and spun out of control as the shells exploded around them, while others simply disintegrated under direct hits. Fire spread. Ammunition on the gunships exploded throughout the field.

Incredibly, two rotorcraft managed to lift off amid the maelstrom, rising above the airfield, front edges dipping as they raced to attack the river.

“Azoh!” Wilton said, but even as he said it, one of the rotorcraft exploded in midair, a sudden bright star surrounded by crumpled metal and fiery streaks of burning fuel. The shock wave swept over the Angels, sucking the breath out of Chisnall’s lungs as he realized what had happened. It was a lucky shot. A one in a million. The rotorcraft had run into one of the incoming artillery shells.

The other rotorcraft did not last much longer.

It swept over the Angels’ heads, not seeing them, or not caring, heading for the river.

It never made it that far.

Thunder sounded above them and Chisnall saw the rotorcraft, out of control, spinning rapidly to the earth, the victim of another javelin missile.

“Get down!”

Something thudded into him, knocking him to the ground.
He tried, and failed, not to scream at the stabbing pain from his ribs. Monster was lying on top of him and Chisnall started to ask him what he thought he was doing when the tree trunks above them began to split and splinter.

The hammering of coil-guns told him that their hiding place was no longer a secret.

“Keep calling the shots,” Price said as the Angel Team returned fire. “We’ve got it covered.”

Several of the Bzadian soldiers dropped, but the other squads were converging on their position, maintaining a constant barrage that kept the Angels’ heads down as they approached. The effect on the surrounding trees was like someone taking to them with a chainsaw. Leaves and small branches danced and shattered; larger branches and tree trunks spat sawdust. Dirt jumped up into their faces.

The Bzadians advanced, closing in from eighty meters, seventy meters. It was all Chisnall could do to risk the occasional glance to try and direct the artillery fire where it was most needed.

Sixty meters. He would have to bring the artillery down on the advancing troops if they were to have any chance at all.

“New coordinates,” Chisnall shouted into the radio over the wall of sound that was the battle. “Immediate effect.” He got the coordinates of their own position from his wrist computer and mentally added fifty meters. “Fire for range and accuracy. Danger close.”

“Danger close” let the artillery know that they were firing in the vicinity of friendly troops. There was a brief pause while
the artillery team adjusted their guns, then the familiar thunder. This time, though, the sound was different. It wasn’t the scream of shells passing high overhead, but rather the rising whistle of shells falling close to their position. Too close.

“Incoming!” Price screamed.

Alizza was strapping on his coil-gun when Yozi rounded the corner into their ready room. Yozi didn’t limp, but it took a concerted effort. Alizza looked up in surprise to see him.

“Save me a place, old friend,” Yozi said.

“When did you get back on active duty?” Alizza asked.

“Just now,” Yozi said.

“Who authorized it?”

“I did.”

Alizza grinned. “It is definitely scumbugz?”

“It is,” Yozi said. “They’ve infiltrated via the Brisbane River. Seems like the target is the Amberley Air Base.”

“The last time scumbugz came here I fear we let them off too lightly,” Alizza said.