Task Force (23 page)

The noise was overpowering, a roar that was part water sluicing through giant tubes and part the whine of the turbo generators. Barnard went quickly around the room, identifying the machinery. “Generators,” she said, pointing at six huge metal boxes, painted an olive green and studded with bolts the size of Chisnall’s head. “Inductors, intake tubes, backup power supply.”

The last was a long metal device lined with metal tubes the size of 200-liter drums.

“Fuel cells?” Price asked. “I thought this place generated power. Why does it need fuel cells?”

“It makes power by pumping water from the main lake up to the smaller lake above us,” Barnard said. “It needs power to run the pumps. It generates its own electricity for the pumps, but if the top lake should ever run dry, they’d need a backup.”

“Those fuel cells will go up like a volcano,” Chisnall said, remembering the shuddering surface of Uluru. “It’ll leave a smoking crater where this plant is.”

“But that doesn’t solve our problem of the other generator at the dam. If we can’t shut that down, then everything, this whole operation, is for nothing.”

Chisnall thought of the gantry crane on the dam, heavily armed, and the guards, now alerted to their presence. He shrugged. “Our orders are to blow this one, so that’s what we’ll do. We’d never get to the other.”

“There might be a way,” Barnard said.

“Hold that thought,” Chisnall said. She had earned the right to a hearing. “Everybody, bring your C4 packs in here. After that, we’d better get ready for company. Monster, see if you can fix that fence you broke. Everybody set up defensive positions. I want clear kill zones and overlapping fields of fire. Are we clear?”

“Barnard, you give me a hand to rig the charges on these fuel cells,” Chisnall said. “While we do it, tell me what you’re thinking.”

Chisnall took a C4 satchel and held it against the nearest fuel cell, a large silver drum, trying to determine the best way to attach it. The satchels came with an assortment of straps and catches for exactly this kind of purpose.

“I’ve been in contact with some professors at Stanford, experts in fluid dynamics,” Barnard said.

“Keep talking,” Chisnall said. He laid the C4 satchel flat on top of the cell and found he could attach it securely to the fuel cell’s handles with a strap.

“A wave traveling in a liquid, like the sea, can carry a tremendous amount of energy,” Barnard said. “Although you can’t see it until it hits dry land.”

“Like a tsunami,” Chisnall said.

“Exactly,” Barnard said. “Imagine if you could create a tsunami.” She followed Chisnall’s lead and attached the first of her satchels in the same manner.

“You’d need an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption,” Chisnall said. “We can’t do that.”

“No, but we could set off an underwater explosion,” Barnard said. “That would create a huge pressure wave.”

She banged her hand on one of the fuel cells as she spoke, making Chisnall jump, even though he knew they were perfectly safe without an explosion to set them off.

“Still not as big as a tsunami,” he said.

“So we set off a series of explosions, timing them exactly so that the waves synchronize.”
Bang, bang, bang
on the side of the fuel cell, again making him jump. “They all converge on the same spot at the same time. It’s called wave amplification.”

“You’re talking about taking out the dam,” Chisnall realized. “Can that be done?”

“Not without a nuke,” Barnard said. She stopped what she was doing and moved over to Chisnall. She brought up a satellite map of the area on her wrist computer. “But look at the gates. These concrete walls would act as a funnel and amplify the power of our ‘tsunami’ even more, forcing it into a smaller and smaller area. Also, the lake gets shallower as it rises up to meet the dam, which concentrates it further. The gates are designed to resist the weight of the water in the lake, not a sudden destructive blast. If we can take out even one of the gates, Lowood will end up underwater.”

“So will the task force,” Chisnall said, studying the map.

“Not if we give them enough warning,” Barnard said. “Tell them to get clear.”

“Okay. I like it,” Chisnall said. “But only as a last resort. Only if the task force fails to get through to Lowood.”

“I’ll ask the Stanford guys to start running the numbers,” Barnard said.

Kriz examined her computer screen one more time, analyzing the information, evaluating possibilities.

The humans had attacked Splityard Creek. Clearly they were after the generator station. If they succeeded, that would knock out three-quarters of the power output from the dam. They had to be stopped. The good news was that Yozi and his team were on their way to the dam. There was a quiet assurance and competence about Yozi that gave her some confidence.

A status update flashed up on her screen as she watched. More good news. The squadron from Nambour had made much better time than expected. She smiled to herself. Chizel and his friends were pretty tough against one lightly armed pen pusher. See how they fared against twenty-four giant Bzadian battle tanks.

“WILTON, ANYTHING HAPPENING ON THE DAM?” CHISNALL
asked.

Wilton was in his favorite position, on the roof of the building, with a good view of the approach road and the surrounding area.

“They’re all in a buzz, but they aren’t going anywhere,” Wilton said. “They’re on top of that big crane thing. I reckon they’re more worried about defending their own position than trying to attack us.”

Chisnall was sure that would change when reinforcements arrived.

He was standing, leaning on one of the quad bikes, unwilling to sit down despite legs that felt like lead. If he sat down,
he would have to stand back up, and that was still a mammoth effort, despite the painkillers.

Barnard was sitting cross-legged on the ground, working on her wrist computer. She looked like a kid at school, Chisnall thought. But this was a long way from school.

She stood and walked over to him. “I heard back from Stanford.”

“About our tsunami?” Chisnall asked.

“Yes. A bunch of students, with help from a couple of professors, have been running simulations on a computer model. They’re not guaranteeing anything, but they say it’s theoretically possible.”

She waved her computer at him. It contained strings of numbers that meant nothing to Chisnall. “Based on their best calculations, we need to set up three explosions.”

“What is that?” he asked, pointing at the computer.

“GPS coordinates, depths, and timing sequence,” she said.

“Chances of success?” he asked.

“Better than average,” she said. “And a lot better than if we do nothing.”

Chisnall nodded.

“But the locations of the explosions in the lake, the depths, and the timing of the detonations all have to be perfect,” Barnard said. “It’s your call, LT.”

“I know, but what’s your opinion, Barnard?” Chisnall asked.

“I believe it will work,” Barnard said.

Chisnall stared at her for a moment, realizing that in less
than a day, she had gone from someone he hardly knew, and didn’t really like, to a person whose fierce intelligence he had come to rely on. If she believed it could be done, there was a good chance she was right. And if she believed that blowing up the generators would not stop production at Lowood, then she was probably right about that also.

“Okay. Let’s do it,” Chisnall said.

“There’s one complication,” Barnard said.

“Naturally,” Chisnall said.

“The professors are not sure about the power of the wave, the ‘tsunami’ alone,” she said. “There are smaller bulkhead gates that protect the main gates. We need to take out one of the bulkhead gates a few seconds before our tsunami arrives. They think we need one more explosion, right at the face of the dam, ten or fifteen meters down. It more than doubles our chances of success.”

Chisnall looked over the water at the dam. The gantry crane was buzzing with activity. “We’d never get near it,” he said.

“That’s your call,” Barnard said. “I’m just letting you know the odds.”

Chisnall considered that, then keyed his comm. “Wilton, what armaments can you see on that big crane?”

The gantry crane was a massive square platform on four stout legs. It moved on heavy-gauge railway tracks to open and close each of the flat bulkhead panels, behind which sat the curved main gates of the dam.

“There’re at least eight heavy machine guns,” Wilton said,
examining the gantry crane through binoculars. “One on each corner and one in the middle of each side.”

“What else?” Chisnall asked.

“Not much that I can see.”

“So make a guess.”

“Rockets, that’s what I’d do. SAMs, corkscrews. I’d stack that platform with everything I could lay my hands on.”

“How would you attack it?” Chisnall asked.

Wilton hesitated. “To get near it, you have to travel along the road on top of the dam. That’s one long road with no cover in either direction. They’d have a perfect field of fire, with a great height advantage. Then you’d have to assault the platform up those staircases.” A metal staircase zigzagged up each of the legs. “I don’t think it’s possible, LT, unless …”

“Unless what?” Chisnall asked.

“You remember what they taught us in judo?”

“What?”

“To take down a big guy, take out his legs,” Wilton said.

Chisnall switched his comm to the command channel.

“Task Force Actual, this is Angel One.”

“Clear copy, Angel One.”

“I need to talk to Colonel Fairbrother, over.”

“This better be important, Angel One.”

“It is, Task Force Actual.”

Fairbrother came on the line a minute later. He sounded breathless and there was constant gunfire in the background. “What have you got, Chisnall?”

“Colonel, we believe we can breach the dam gates. If it works, it will flood and destroy the Lowood plant.”

“What about those generators?”

“Sir, it is my belief that blowing the generators would not achieve the mission objective. The fuel plant would continue to operate.”

“Can you do both?” Fairbrother asked.

“No. We don’t have enough C4.”

The line went dead. Chisnall waited.

“Chisnall, you better be right. Do you know what’s riding on this?”

“Sir, yes, I think I do.”

“The fate of the human race is riding on this, Chisnall. Do you get that? Do you really get what that means? If we can’t get through to the fuel plant, then the existence of the human race on this planet is going to depend on whether Lieutenant Ryan Bloody Chisnall made the right bloody decision.”

“I understand that, sir.”

Fairbrother went silent again, although the line stayed open this time. Chisnall could hear explosions and shooting through the earpiece. It sounded close.

“It rather looks like we’re out of options,” Fairbrother said. “If we can’t get in, we’ll get clear. I will call you when the task force is at a safe distance.”

“Take the Lowood Hills Road, get as high as you can.”

“I can read a bloody map, Lieutenant.”

The channel clicked off. “They’re having a bad time of it,” Chisnall said.

“You think they make it through?” Monster asked.

“I think we’d better be ready,” Chisnall said. “In case they don’t.”

“You’d better pray that this works,” the Tsar said. “In case they don’t.”

Chisnall nodded but said nothing. His decision was made.

Monster and the Tsar had removed the heavy machine gun from the boat and were welding the tripod stand onto the front tray of one of the quad bikes. Price and Barnard had jury-rigged three buoys using rope they found in a storeroom, large plastic water containers that they emptied and lashed together in pairs, and more of the water containers, filled with dirt, to act as anchors.

“So some suicidal maniac has to take one of these right up to the dam gates,” Price said. “Who’s going to volunteer for that job?”

“I am,” Chisnall said.

“NOW?” PRICE ASKED. SHE FELT VULNERABLE AND EXPOSED
in a small open boat in the middle of the lake.

“Not yet,” Barnard said.

The boat wallowed in the water under the weight of three heavy fuel cells, plus the buoy anchors. Watchful eyes from the dam followed them as they motored to the specified coordinates.

“That’s it,” Barnard said, her eyes never leaving the GPS readout on her wrist computer. She idled the engine of the boat, maintaining the position, while Price heaved the anchor over the side. The rope slithered over the gunnels of the boat but stopped with a jerk as the rope tightened on the bomb they had created using a fuel cell and a C4 satchel.

Price armed the satchel and connected an aerial wire, then placed the makeshift buoy in the water before rolling the fuel cell over the side of the boat. More rope snaked out over the gunnels and Price let the aerial wire run through her fingers
to make sure it did not get damaged. The rope disappeared, as did the buoy for a second, just long enough for Price to wonder if the combined weight of the bomb and the anchor was too much—but then it bobbed back to the surface. She fastened the end of the wire to the buoy with duct tape, and Barnard let the boat drift away from the location before gunning the motor and turning toward the next GPS position.

Price looked over at the dam, and the crane that rose above it. They were well out of range, but that didn’t make her feel any more comfortable. Barnard noticed her looking.

“You and Monster are going to hold C4 satchels and ride right up to that crane?” Barnard asked.

Price shrugged. “You wanna swap places?”

“Uh-uh, I still have a vague hope of getting out of here alive,” Barnard said, checking their position against her GPS screen. “Why’d you volunteer for it?”

“Someone had to do it,” Price said.