Task Force (22 page)

“Turnoff to Splityard Creek coming up in one klick,” Price said.

“He’s wrong,” Barnard said.

“A bunch of experts have studied that dam,” Chisnall said. “He’s not wrong.”

“Yes, he is,” Barnard said. “You have to understand Bzadian psychology.”

“And how do you know so much about that subject?” the Tsar asked.

“I studied it at Stanford University,” she said.

“You’re talking out of your butt,” the Tsar said. “You’ve been in Angel training since you were thirteen. You never had time to go to Stanford. You think you’re real smart, but you’re just a grunt like the rest of us.”

“I passed my SATs at twelve,” Barnard said, without false modesty. “I applied for psych at Stanford and got accepted. I’d be there now if they hadn’t recruited me. That’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.”

“You know what I think?” the Tsar said. “I think you dispense bull like you invented it and own the rights.”

“I don’t give a fat rat what you think,” Barnard said. “But if I did, trust me, you’d be the first person I’d give it to.”

“What aren’t you telling us?” Chisnall asked. “Who recruited you from Stanford? Recon Team Angel?”

Barnard shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Chisnall stared at her. It did matter. It mattered a lot. But it was clear that she had no intention of saying.

“So what are you doing here?” Price asked.

“Firsthand experience,” Barnard said. “They want us to get inside the Pukes’ minds, to help figure out how to win this war. Couldn’t do that sitting in an office in the Pentagon, so here I am.”

“You had an office at the Pentagon?” Wilton said. “Cool!”

“And how does this apply to the generators?” Chisnall asked.

“The psychology of social structures,” Barnard said.

“We think of ourselves as individuals; then we form groups like this team, or a community, or a country. But Pukes think the opposite way around.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” the Tsar asked.

“About Azoh,” Barnard said.

“Their god?” Wilton asked.

“Azoh’s not a god. It’s a collective intelligence that the Pukes believe in. They see themselves as tiny parts of one whole.”

“Like ants,” Chisnall said.

“Like ants,” Barnard agreed.

“Don’t ants have a queen?” Wilton asked.

“Yes, and so do the Pukes,” Barnard said.

“Azoh,” Chisnall said.

“The ‘brain’ of this collective intelligence is one individual, and they worship him or her as we worship our gods. This individual is known as Azoh, even though Azoh actually refers to all living Bzadians.”

“Do Pukes really have a common mind?” Price asked. “Like ants. Is that true?”

“It’s true that they believe it. It’s like a religion,” Barnard said. “There’s no proof. But that doesn’t stop them believing.”

“What has this got to do with the generators?” Chisnall asked.

“Okay. The generators at Wivenhoe power half of Brisbane,” Barnard said. “Much of it essential services. Keeping hospitals running. Keeping patients alive. If this were a human country, they’d have to keep those facilities operating. Pukes don’t think like that. The needs of the collective intelligence come first. Everything else comes second. Azoh is more important than the individual. Funny thing is, some Puke soldier, dying on a hospital bed for a lack of electricity, would totally get that. They would understand their place in the overall scheme of things. And if their place is to die, then they will die.”

“Even if that’s all true, it doesn’t change anything,” Chisnall said. “The secondary generator produces less than half the electricity the fuel plant needs.”

“So they’ll produce less than half their normal output of fuel cells,” Barnard said. “That might slow down the invasion of the Free Territories, but it won’t stop it.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Chisnall asked.

“No,” Barnard said. “But I’m working on it.”

THE HUM OF THE MASSIVE ROTOR BLADES BENEATH
them was a comforting and familiar sound. There were no windows, but the central video screens showed the world outside. The lines of rotorcraft streaking low above the ground in a tight formation, trying to stay below enemy radar.

The squad members, particularly the new recruits, some of them just out of the military academy, were excitable and chattering.

Yozi shared a glance with Alizza, who gave him a crooked-toothed grin. New images were appearing on the screens now. Footage from the reconnaissance craft that were approaching the invaders, staying out of reach of the sting in the tail of their javelin missiles.

The younger soldiers stopped talking and watched the
screens. White flashes of explosions were like pinpricks in the high-altitude shots, and parts of the picture were obscured by wreaths of smoke. Other screens showed closer angles of the battle, and as they watched, a spiraling trail of smoke streaked down from a hillside, scoring a direct hit on a human tank, which erupted in flames. A fierce firefight was taking place on the riverbank, younger soldiers cheering at the bravery of the defenders, until two amphibious human craft rose up from the water, chewing up the defensive position with heavy machine-gun fire.

The footage changed to that from another recon craft, this time showing a view from the west, the direction in which they were traveling. From this angle, Yozi could see that most of the fighting centered on one hill, which commanded the approach roads. Reinforcing that hill would be his top priority once on the ground. The defenders looked in danger of being overwhelmed, and Yozi fumed that his squad was still over an hour away.

One of the screens showed the view from a third recon rotorcraft traveling toward Lowood from the east. It passed over a squad of Bzadian soldiers on powered cycle transport, human vehicles, heading along a highway.

“Run that again,” Alizza grunted.

Yozi looked at his friend. Alizza’s eyes were still fixed on the screen, although it now showed nothing but empty fields.

He tapped the intercom for the flight crew. “Back up the video on screen three. The soldiers on the motor bicycles.”

With a brief acknowledgment from the flight deck, the video began to reverse, pausing on the soldiers.

“A little more,” Alizza said, and Yozi repeated the request to the flight deck.

“Stop.”

One of the soldiers had glanced up at the rotorcraft. The face was only a pale dot on the screen, but something had triggered Alizza’s interest.

“Zoom in on the soldiers,” Yozi said, and the four shapes on the highway began to grow, resolving into six clear images. They were looking down on the soldiers and could not see their faces. Except for one, frozen in time, looking up at the camera.

“Is it him?” Alizza asked.

Yozi checked the screen again to be sure. It was blurred, but he was sure. It might have been the wide shoulders that went with the face.

“Yes, it’s him,” Yozi said.

It was one of the team that had defeated them at Uluru. The team led by Chizna. It was the large one. The one they called Monster. With a cold, hard certainty in his heart, he knew that Chizna was on one of the other powered cycles.

“Which way are they headed?” Alizza asked.

“North,” Yozi said. “To the dam.”

THEY STOPPED THE BIKES ON THE RIDGELINE. TO THEIR
right was the small lake at Splityard Creek. Below them, down a steep ravine, was the generating plant they had come to destroy. It extended out from the shore of the main lake in a small inlet. Up here on the ridge there was no security, because there was nothing to attack but a hill.

But the generating plant looked well defended, with double wire fences and two guard stations. A patrol boat with a heavy machine gun mounted on the bow was moored at a small jetty to the left of the plant.

Wivenhoe Dam stretched across the other side of the lake, a massive earthen embankment, imposing its will on the pent-up waters. Even from the opposite shore, at least three miles away, the dam was impressive. It had to be; it was holding
back a million megaliters of water, twice the amount of water in Sydney Harbor.

A side road a hundred meters back led down to the plant, but Chisnall had wanted to reconnoiter the site first, and the high ridgeline was the ideal place to do it.

Across the lake, the dam looked even better defended. A tall gantry crane in the center of the dam bristled with weapons. The Bzadians might not have been expecting an attack here in their heartland, but they were certainly well prepared.

“Let’s get down there,” Chisnall said. “Follow my lead. We’ll bluff our way as far as we can, but be prepared to go hot and loud in a hurry. The action word, as usual, is
dingo
.”

“Major Kriz, I am Yozi,” the voice said in her headset. She could hear the hum of a rotorcraft engine in the background.

“Yozi? Where are you?” Kriz asked.

“En route to Lowood,” Yozi said.

“Lowood, why?” Kriz asked. As far as she knew, Yozi was a command center supervisor, not a combat soldier.

“It doesn’t matter,” Yozi said. “I have vital information for you.”

“Speak,” Kriz said.

“We have identified a team of scumbugz heading for the dam at Wivenhoe,” Yozi said. “They are disguised as Bzadians.”

“You’re sure?” Kriz asked.

“No,” Yozi said. “Not sure enough. Can you check if we have any teams on missions in that area?”

“I will get someone on it,” Kriz said. “If they are disguised as Bzadians, how did you ID them?”

“From a reconnaissance video. It is not that clear. But if I am right, then some of them were at Uluru during the attack,” Yozi said. “The leader is called Chizna.”

“Chizel!” Kriz blurted out.
Could it be the same?

“You know of him?”

“I killed him. At least I shot him. By the river. I thought he was dead.”

There was silence while he digested that. When he spoke again, he almost sounded disappointed, Kriz thought.

“I need permission to divert to Wivenhoe,” Yozi said.

“Granted,” Kriz said, making a note. “What is your rotorcraft designation? I’ll send the permission to your pilot.”

“And alert the security at Wivenhoe,” Yozi said.

“Of course,” Kriz said.

A gate guard stopped them with an upraised hand, and three more stood nearby, alert, but not yet drawing weapons. Chisnall dismounted the quad bike as soon as it stopped.

“What are you doing here?” the guard asked.

“I am Chizel. Haven’t you heard?” Chisnall said. “Scumbugz have landed in this area. They’re only a few miles down the road. We’re here to reinforce your security in case they attack the dam.”

A female guard captain came out of a guardhouse but made no move to open the gate. “We have no knowledge of this,” she said.

“There’s an invasion in your area and you know nothing about it?” Chisnall exploded.

“Of course we know about the invasion,” the captain said. “But we weren’t informed of any reinforcements.”

“So what were you planning to do?” Chisnall asked. “Stop an entire army of scumbugz with four soldiers?”

“Six,” the captain replied with a slight rise to her voice.

“Well, now we are twelve,” Chisnall said. “I hope to Azoh that it is enough, if they head in our direction.”

“I will need to get confirmation,” the captain said.

“Of course,” Chisnall said.

Even as he finished speaking, an alarm siren began to sound from the direction of the dam, clearly audible across the few miles of water, despite the low headland of the inlet. He counted the guards. Two at each guard station, plus the captain. That left one still unaccounted for.

The guard’s radio beeped, and she raised it to her ear, listening carefully. She was trying to keep her expression neutral, but there was no mistaking the way her eyes suddenly shot around the Angels and back to Chisnall. She replaced her radio on her belt and kept her hand there, casually—right next to her sidearm.

“Get back on your radio,” Chisnall said. “Talk to your regional headquarters. They know we are coming.”

The captain raised an eyebrow and her hand inched closer to the butt of her sidearm.

“Our designation is team dingo,” Chisnall said.

The captain grabbed at her sidearm, but her chest exploded in puffer smoke. The Tsar had drawn, aimed, and fired before she even loosened it in the holster.

The other Angels were almost as fast. Four Bzadian guards hit the ground simultaneously. A rattle of heavy machine-gun fire made Chisnall dive to the ground, and from the direction of the sound, he guessed it was coming from the boat.

“Get this gate open!” Chisnall yelled.

Price had wire cutters out in a second and began snipping strands, but Monster found a faster way, grasping hold of a bar and lifting the end of the gate up off its hinges, never minding the bullets and tracer rounds that sparked and flashed off the fence around him.

The Angel Team ran through the gap, using several small vehicles as cover. Glass shattered and the cars shuddered as the heavy machine-gun rounds followed them to the parking area by the main building.

“See if you can get an angle on him,” Chisnall said to Wilton. “Suppressing fire!” He hurled a smoke grenade. A thick blanket of white smoke hissed and filled the air around them.

The Angels’ bullets peppered the smoke as they returned fire toward the jetty. There was a single crack from Wilton’s gun and a corresponding splash from down near the boat.

Chisnall stood and hurried down to the jetty, but the Tsar had beaten him to it and was already hauling the unconscious Bzadian out of the water.

“Couldn’t let him drown,” the Tsar said.

Chisnall thought again of the twelve-year-old boy listening to the gunshots at the Russian border and wondered if he had vastly underestimated the Tsar.

Price had found some keys on the captain’s belt and used them to open the main door to the generator plant. Chisnall and Barnard followed her inside.