Ice War (16 page)

“Teranis squadron begin climb to attack altitude in three, two, one,” Watson said. “Climbing now.”

“How long?” Whitehead asked.

“A few minutes,” Hundal said.

“Come on,” Wilton said, and then realised he had said it out loud. It earned him a few glances but nothing more. Everybody was just as keyed up as he was.

Out over the ice, the unmanned aircraft were sacrificing ground speed for height, their engines straining to pull the craft up to the altitude from which they could launch their missiles.

“If we don’t get some kind of movement on the ground, get those drones out of there before the Pukes can get within range,” Whitehead said. “Have we got air cover up?”

“Yes, sir,” Hundal said. “A squadron of F-35s is lifting off as we speak.”

Price was the first out. She emerged from the tunnel under the tank and raised her hands to the back of her neck. She kept a close eye on the time ticking away on the inside of her visor.

Barnard and The Tsar followed her out.

Bzadian soldiers surrounded them, guns raised. Nokz’z and the Vaza watched from behind the line of soldiers. Wall too.

A small convoy of vehicles was pulling to a halt behind the soldiers. Low, squat, armoured transporters. They looked Russian. Other soldiers disappeared into the tank behind them and emerged dragging out the limp bodies of Zim and the others.

“Get on your knees,” the Vaza said.

Price ignored her.

Two minutes
.

They were too close to the tank, Price thought. They had to get further away. She took a step forwards, then another. The Tsar and Barnard were right alongside her.

“That’s far enough,” Nokz’z said. “One more step and I will be forced to …”

He never got to say what he would be forced to do. His voice cut off abruptly and his eyes narrowed, as he listened to something on his radio. His eyes turned upwards, as did the eyes of most of the other Bzadians. The air of calm vanished, the Angels almost forgotten while he issued urgent orders.

One minute
.

Price took another step.

Big Billy had a spear-thrower with a dart already hooked onto the end. The look in his eyes suggested he was never happier than when he was out here on the ice, hunting, especially when the prey was Bzadian. Nukilik also seemed to be in his element, lying between two jagged edges of ice as if he too was part of the icefloe.

The other Inupiat were lying along the ridgeline with rifles or standing below it with spear-throwers and quivers full of darts. Some of those on the ridge would act as observers for those behind it, indicating with hand signals where to fire the darts.

Monster tried to remain still, although it was uncomfortable on the cold ice. The Inupiat, he saw, were like statues. Movement attracted the eye.

Nukilik eased up alongside him. “We are running out of time,” he said.

“Why?” Monster asked.

“Big Billy says he can hear aircraft approaching,” Nukilik said.

Monster strained his ears, but could hear nothing over the rising howl of the wind.

“He’s sure?”

“Big Billy is never wrong,” Nukilik said.

“On my mark, hit the deck,” Price said.

“Don’t dive,” The Tsar said. “Fall.”

“What?” Barnard asked.

“If you dive, they’ll know something is up,” The Tsar said. “Act like you’re fainting. Collapse to the ground. It will confuse them.”

“Whatever you’re going to do, you’ve got three seconds,” Price said. “Two …”

She let her legs go limp and fell, feigning unconsciousness, to the ground. From the corner of her eye, she saw Barnard fall beside her. The Tsar added some theatrics, clutching at his throat as if poisoned.

Several of the soldiers moved towards the fallen Angels. The rest stood where they were, unsure.

Price played dead. The timer inside her visor ticked to zero. Nothing happened. Had the timer not worked? That wasn’t like Barnard. She was normally so precise. So efficient. So …

The thought died as the air around her was ripped apart by thunder and fire.

“These are the snowhills you were talking about,” Whitehead said.

“There’re a lot of them,” Bilal said.

The image from one of the drones was up on the main screen, showing the unusual mounds of ice stretching into the distance.

“Taranis three is picking up foot mobiles,” Watson said. “A group of them down by one of the mounds.”

The feed came up on the main screen as she spoke.

“What the hell’s going on down there?” Whitehead asked. “Get us in closer. We … Whoa! What was that? Did we do that?”

A ball of fire had just blossomed in the middle of the screen.

“Negative, sir,” Watson said. “We didn’t fire anything. But the operators on Little Diomede are reporting a large explosion to the south-west. That’s what we just saw.”

Wilton found himself on his feet, staring at the screen, his heart racing. What had happened?

A few people were looking at him and he forced himself to sit back down and act calmly.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Bilal said, “but I don’t think those mounds are igloos.”

On the large screen, images from the drones showed the icepack clearly, with the little island to the north-east.

As Wilton watched, pinpoints of light appeared on the screen, making the ice sparkle like a Christmas tree.

“SAM, SAM, SAM,” Watson called. “Multiple in-bound surface-to-air missiles from the icefield.”

“That’s it!” Whitehead said. “That’s confirmation. Engage those SAM batteries with the drones and get those cruise missiles in the air.”

“We haven’t seen a tank yet,” Russell said.

“Those SAM batteries are not there guarding empty ice,” Whitehead said. “Hooper?”

Admiral Hooper, who was already on the phone to her staff, nodded and gave a thumbs up. “Missiles away,” she said.

From the ten submarines that lay south of the icefield, twenty Tomahawk missiles exploded up out of the water, ejected by gas pressure, before rocketing to three hundred metres on the shiny tail of a solid-fuel booster. The wings unfolded and the air-scoops deployed as the turbofan engines kicked in.

The Tomahawks plunged to barely ten metres above the sea, dropping off radar screens, hugging the ocean, then the icepack, as they raced in to the attack.

“Launch, launch, launch!” Watson called out. “Multiple tangos lifting off from bases across the Chukchi Peninsula.”

“It’s going to be close,” Whitehead said.

The air burned. The armour on Price’s body burned. Even the ice burned.

The Bzadians were scattered, blown off their feet, dazed and shocked, or worse.

The Vaza was the only one who had reacted in time. Knowing something was wrong, she had twisted around in front of Nokz’z, protecting him from the brunt of the explosion. Now she lay unconscious on top of him.

Price pushed herself up off the ice and looked to see if the others were okay. Barnard was already on her feet and collecting coil-guns from the downed Bzadians. The Tsar was sitting back on his haunches, gathering his wits.

Barnard tossed Price a coil-gun, then threw one to The Tsar, who caught it deftly, despite his dazed condition.

“Let’s get out of here,” Price said. One or two of the Bzadians were already starting to stir. Nokz’z was conscious and struggling to get out from under the weight of the Vaza.

“Help me,” Barnard shouted. She had her hands under Wall’s shoulders.

“Leave him,” Price said.

“No way,” Barnard said. “He saved our lives.”

“He’s Fezerker,” Price said.

“Either way, we take him,” Barnard said. “We need to get him back to ACOG so they can interrogate him.”

“He’ll slow us down,” Price said, but The Tsar already had Wall’s feet and was running with him towards one of the transporters.

The transporter’s windows had been shattered by the explosion and the driver was leaning, unconscious, against the door. Price opened it and hauled him out roughly.

The stunned Bzadians were recovering quickly and coil-gun rounds sparked off the armoured sides of the transporter as Price gunned the engine. The tracks of the machine bit into the ice and the machine lurched into a tight turn, away from the smouldering wreckage of the SAM battery.

Price found herself heading to the west, back along the tracks that the transporters had already made. It was the wrong way to go; they needed to go east, but a high ice ridge to the north, and a deep crack in the ice to the south, were forcing them into a narrow funnel.

Heavy machine-gun bullets were thudding into the transporter, and in her rear-view mirrors she could see at least one of the other transporters giving chase. The fifty-calibre top-mounted machine gun was spitting fire in their direction.

“Someone get on the fifty,” she yelled.

She pressed the accelerator to the floor and the machine surged forwards.