The Assault (16 page)

Chisnall checked the payload carefully before easing his way back out through the emergency door. He used a mangled piece of the wing to climb on top of the Tomahawk, and sat astride it while he examined the top panels.

“You’re sure this won’t go off, LT?” Price asked. Her voice was surprisingly steady, considering that if it did explode, there would be only a cloud of vapor where she was now standing.

“Not until we want it to,” Chisnall said.

The top part of the aft-body section, just behind the wings, usually contained an extra fuel tank, but that had been removed on this particular missile. Chisnall placed his hand on a panel on the top. There was a pause as it scanned his fingerprints, followed by a click as the panel came loose. He lifted it slightly, then slid it toward the tail.

Monster, still balanced on the railing, looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

Inside was a tightly packed compartment. Chisnall took a quick glance at the contents to check that everything was undamaged.

“Price, get back up to that observation level. Keep an eye out for our square-faced friend.” She nodded and disappeared back up the stairs.

Chisnall slid the missile compartment closed.

“What are you waiting for?” Wilton asked. He nodded toward the inner doors of the monorail bay. “This is what we came for, isn’t it? Let’s get those open and get in there.”

“Not yet,” Chisnall said.

“Then when?” Brogan asked.

“When the RAF guys get here,” Chisnall said.

“Have you forgotten that they’re stuck inside the PGZ headquarters?” Brogan asked.

“Not for much longer,” Chisnall said.

“Have you got a Get Out of Jail Free card?” Price asked from the platform above.

“Something like that,” Chisnall said, smiling up at her. “By the way, they’re not RAF. They’re SAS.”

“Figures,” was all Brogan said.

“Here he comes,” Price said. “Stand by for company.”

“Copy that,” Chisnall said. “See if you can find your way up to the roof and get eyes on what’s happening back at the fence line. Update me if there is any change out there. Do your phantom thing—don’t let anybody see you.”

Conna arrived on the upper platform a moment or two later. “Anything to report?” he asked, peering nervously over the handrail.

“We have a problem,” Chisnall said.

“What kind of problem?” Conna asked.

“The wiring is all wrong,” he said. “This missile has been booby-trapped.”

“Can you defuse it?” Conna asked.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Chisnall said. He looked at the big metal doors behind the crushed car. “These doors lead straight into the rock—am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“You’d better start evacuating whatever is in there.”

“That’s not possible,” Conna said. “So do your job. Make sure it doesn’t go off.”

“We’ll try,” Chisnall said. “But it’s not that simple. We think the scumbugz are deliberately targeting bomb-disposal teams. We have already lost some good people today.”

Conna swore a long violent curse in Bzadian. “What can you do?”

“There is one hope,” Chisnall said.

“What?”

“Our comms are down, but do you have a hardline?” Chisnall asked.

“Yes, in the control room.”

“Is it still working?”

“So far.”

“Good. Contact the PGZ headquarters. I have heard that two human prisoners were taken there a short while ago. Forward spotters for the raid. Find out if this is true. If so, have them brought here,” Chisnall said.

“Why?” Conna asked.

“If they were involved in the raid, then they are likely to know about the booby-trapped missiles.”

“The PGZ do not like to release prisoners,” Conna said. “Persuade them,” Chisnall said.

Conna shook his head, but headed off up the stairs to the control room.

“We’d better act like we’re doing something,” Chisnall said. He climbed back up onto the wreckage and pretended to examine the Tomahawk.

Zabet had found an emergency beacon under a section of the fuselage that had detached and buried itself partway into the desert floor. They had activated it more than half an hour ago. Yozi was starting to wonder if it was functional when a dust plume in the distance announced that help was on its way.

The rescue squad that arrived was surprised and wary when, instead of a downed flight crew, they found themselves approaching a squad of angry Republican Guards.

Yozi hadn’t bothered arguing or trying to explain. There was no time for that.

“Take us to PGZ headquarters,” he said. When the rescuers seemed unsure, Alizza growled a low noise from deep in his throat, and that was the end of the discussion.

Conna came out onto the observation level. “No,” he said. “They won’t release the prisoners.”

“Then persuade them,” Chisnall said. “We can’t get into the payload to find out what it is, but we are picking up higher than usual levels of radiation. It may be a nuclear warhead.”

If Conna had looked nervous before, that doubled now. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not,” Chisnall said. “Do you want to risk it?”

“Can’t they just ask the prisoners? The PGZ can be very persuasive.”

“Sure,” Chisnall said. “And the only way we will know if the scumbugz are lying is when bits of Uluru start raining down out of the sky. I want those two prisoners standing right next to the missile while we defuse it.”

“Uluru is designed to withstand a nuclear attack,” Conna said.

“I’m sure that’s true,” Chisnall said. “But I’m also sure it’s not designed to withstand one right at the mouth of the tunnel.”

Conna seemed doubtful. “They said there was no way they were—”

Chisnall cut him off. “Look, soldier. I don’t know what you’ve got going on inside that rock, and right now I don’t really care. If this missile goes off, then whatever is inside this rock is history. Understand? If I were you, I’d get hold of whoever is in command inside there and let them know that they’re about to be vaporized. Then you get them to talk to the PGZ.”

Conna disappeared again, and through the window of the control room, they could see him talking animatedly on a handset.

He was back in a few minutes.

“My commander has spoken directly to Commandant Goezlin at the PGZ. The humans are on their way.”

“Azoh would be proud, soldier,” Chisnall said. “Now, I suggest you put as much distance between yourself and this missile as you can. Tell everyone you can find to evacuate the area immediately.”

Conna, for all his fierce looks and tough attitude, took no further convincing. He disappeared with a short salute. Chisnall suspected that when he got to the outer fence line, he was not going to stop running.

“That was almost too easy,” Brogan muttered beside him.

Chisnall nodded. “That shows you how important Uluru is to the Pukes. When the Uluru commanders say jump, even the PGZ asks how high.”

CHISNALL SLID BACK THE TOP PANEL OF THE MISSILE again and drew out tightly packed bags. The six bags had been wedged together by the impact and he had to separate them before passing them to Brogan, who handed them down to Monster.

“If the PGZ put two and two together, then we may need to defend this place,” Chisnall said in English. The time for subterfuge was over.

Beneath where the bags had been was a long aluminum case. He lifted one end and said, “Give us a hand here.”

Brogan climbed up alongside him and looked in. She whistled. “You came prepared, LT.”

The case ran along the inside of the Tomahawk’s body, and they had to maneuver it carefully up through the hatch.

“Got a present for you, Wilton,” Chisnall said.

They passed the case down to him. He put it on the ground and flicked catches to reveal a long, black, deadly shape.

Wilton’s eyes lit up. “Hello, Momma!”

The M110 SASS 7.62 mm is the standard-issue marksman rifle of the U.S. Army and one of the deadliest sniper rifles in the world. In the right hands, it is accurate up to 800 meters. Wilton had the right hands.

Chisnall and Brogan climbed down.

“Any sign of the SAS guys?” Chisnall asked.

Price’s voice came back immediately on the comm. “Nothing yet. No activity at all.”

The bags yielded a treasure chest of toys—if your game was to wage a small war.

There were high-explosive C4 packs with timers and remote detonators. Det cord, grenades, standing rockets, and assorted other ways to make loud, dangerous bangs. One pack was full of claymore mines: directional, laser-triggered antipersonnel mines. Very nasty toys.

It also contained a satellite map of the area, which they studied. The building they were in curved into a huge cleft in the cliff face. From the outside it almost looked like a dam. On either side, it was well protected by large spurs of rock that embraced the building. A parking lot was in front of the building and the security fences ran around the entire area. The monorail track ran across the top of it all.

“Brogan, give me an assault plan,” Chisnall said. “How would you attack us?”

Brogan studied the map carefully.

“Three-pronged attack—if I had the manpower,” she said.

“They do,” Chisnall said.

“There are three entry points: the main entrance door, the monorail doors, and the roof entrance. I’d simultaneously blow the main door, rope down a team to the roof from a rotorcraft, and bring a third team up to the monorail doors.”

“That’s two stories up,” Wilton said.

“So they’d hook-and-rope it or just use ladders. They must have fire engines around here. They could bring a couple of those up and use their extension ladders.”

“Can we close the monorail doors?” Wilton asked.

“I doubt it,” Brogan said. “They’re pretty badly buckled.”

Chisnall said, “Okay, I want claymores in the monorail bay, just inside the doors. First Puke to step inside will get a heck of a shock, and that should slow down the others.”

“We can use standing rockets to take care of any rotorcraft from up here on the roof,” Price said.

Standing rockets had proved to be one of the most effective defenses against alien rotorcraft. A development of a weapon the Vietcong had used against American forces in Vietnam, they were a vertical, high-explosive rocket, triggered by the downdraft of a rotorblade.

“Good idea,” Chisnall said. “Monster, get the fifty-cal off the Land Rover. Put it somewhere on the roof. Keep it under cover, but make sure you can get into the game real fast.”

Monster grunted.

“The Land Rover is parked about here,” Wilton said,
pointing to a spot on the map. “Why don’t we drop a C4 charge in there, on remote det? Any attack will have to come straight past it.”

“Boom!” Monster laughed.

“Good,” Chisnall said. “Wilton, take the M110, get up to the roof, relieve Price on top cover.”

“Booyah,” Wilton said.

“Okay, let’s get to it. Price, when Wilton gets there, come down and give Monster a hand getting the fifty-cal out of the Land Rover. Cover it with something so the Pukes will just think we’re bringing in some equipment. Drop the C4 charge in while you’re doing it. You others, make sure you stay out of sight.”

“What are you going to do with the rest of the C4?” Brogan asked.

“I’m going to wire the mouth of the tunnel,” he said. “If worse comes to worst, we’ll retreat inside the rock and blow the entrance.”

“What do you want me to do?” Brogan asked.

“Set up claymores inside the monorail entrance.”

“Anything happening, Price?”

“Quiet as Wilton’s love life.”

“Then let’s get into it.”

Chisnall went up a flight of stairs to the observation level. From there, a door led into the control room, a small office with large windows overlooking the bay.

He checked a control panel built into a large desk and found the controls for the inner and outer doors. One wall
was covered with video screens that showed the building and the area around it from every possible angle. Other screens showed the inside of the building. He could see the members of his team as they got on with their assigned tasks. He watched them carefully for any sign that they were not doing what they were supposed to. But all appeared to be working diligently.

“We should just go in,” Wilton complained. He was scouting around the roof of the building for a good shooting position. “Why do we have to wait for the SAS dudes?”

“You’re pretty keen to find out what’s in there,” Brogan said. Chisnall could see her at the end of the monorail bay setting claymores on either side of the big metal doors. She was careful not to be seen through the gap in the doors. She crouched low in a channel that ran down the center of the track.

“Isn’t that why we’re here?” Wilton asked. “Seriously, LT. Why wait?”

“I already told you what’s in there,” Price said. She and Monster had wrapped a tarpaulin around the fifty-cal on the back of the Land Rover. “It’s a pie factory.”

“Whatever it is, Price, it’s not a pie factory,” Brogan said.

“Well,” Price said, “another theory I heard was that they were gene-splicing different species together to create dangerous chimeras.”

“What’s a chimera?” Wilton asked. His rifle moved slowly left to right, scanning the fence line with its telescopic sights.

“Imagine if a goat and a sheep had a baby. That’s a chimera. It’d be a geep,” Price said.

“Or a shoat,” Brogan said.

“Yeah, well, that’s the idea, except goats and sheep can’t have babies together, so they do it genetically,” Price said. Her breath was shortening as she struggled with her share of the fifty. Monster, who had the heavy end, didn’t seem bothered at all.

“The sheep and the goats do it genetically?” Wilton asked.

“No, scientists do, moron,” Price said.

“Scientists do it with goats?” Wilton feigned alarm.

“They splice the genes together in test tubes,” Price said.

“Doesn’t sound dangerous to me,” Wilton said.

“What?” Price asked.