The Assault (6 page)

“Pukes are not gonna conquer the world, dude,” Wilton said. “We’re gonna kick their asses back to Mars.”

“They aren’t from Mars, you plonker,” Hunter said.

“Price, there’s just one problem with your theory,” Chisnall said.

“Yes, sir?”

“The Pukes are all vegetarians.”

“Not true, sir,” Price said.

“Then why are we eating green slime and not roasting a koala over a fire for dinner?” asked Chisnall.

“That’s just what they want us to think,” Price said. “Until the pie factory is ready.”

“Koala pie sounds good,” Monster said.

“There’s no reason for the mission,” Wilton contributed. “It’s just a test of our disguises. The brass wants to find out if we can really fool the Pukes. We’re guinea pigs.”

“Don’t believe everything you think,” Brogan said.

“Just stay focused on your sector,” Chisnall said, shaking his head.

“So what’s your plan to get us in, skipper?” Hunter asked. “Just going to rock on up to the front door and knock?”

“Specialist Huntington, that part of the plan is way above your security level,” Chisnall replied. Now Hunter was asking “innocent” questions.

“Why’s that, then?” Hunter asked.

“I can’t answer that,” Chisnall said.

“Why not?”

“That’s also above your security level.”

“Why wouldn’t they just let us in?” Wilton asked. “We look like Pukes. We sound like Pukes.”

“You smell like puke,” Price added.

“As far as they know, we are Pukes,” Wilton said. “Why can’t we just waltz on in?”

“If they DNA test us, we be behind bars in two seconds,” Monster said.

“If they DNA tested you, you’d be in a zoo,” Hunter said.

“They won’t,” Chisnall said. “There are hundreds of thousands of Pukes wandering around this part of the desert. It’s their biggest military base. They don’t have time to DNA test everyone. And besides, why would they?”

“I heard that, genetically, we’re only one percent different from the Pukes,” Wilton said.

“Yeah, well, genetically, we’re only one percent different from chimpanzees, but you don’t see me climbing trees and eating bananas with my feet,” Hunter said.

“Yeah,” Wilton said, “but don’t it make you wonder how a species that evolved on another planet, hundreds of light-years away, could share our DNA?”

“Wilton, a lot of scientists with brains a lot bigger than yours are trying to work that out as we speak,” Chisnall said. “What those scientists are
not
doing is tabbing through the Australian desert, watching your sector.”

“Are we there yet?” Hunter asked.

The first enemy aircraft appeared above Mount Morris just as light was beginning to color the eastern sky.

“Air mobile on the scope,” Price said, long before they could see or hear the craft. “Slow mover.”

“Cover, cover, cover,” Chisnall said. “Radio silence until Phantom gives us the all clear.”

He flipped his own camo sheet off the top of his backpack and spread it out quickly on the ground. It immediately picked up the colors and patterns of what was underneath it, and he locked them in before sliding underneath.

They had been walking on rock that was reddish in some places, a mix of gray and yellow in others. From above, even from a few feet away, he would appear only as a mound of rock.

There was a viewing hole near each corner of the blanket, just a pinhole. He put his eye to the closest one and waited. He could hear the craft now. It was going to pass close overhead. There was just enough light in the sky for him to see it.

It was a rotorcraft, the Puke equivalent of a helicopter, although the blades were below and internal, giving the appearance of a large saucer in the sky.

The sudden appearance of the craft worried him. Were they searching for his team? Did they know about the mission? A rotorcraft in this part of the desert had to be looking for something.

It moved off slowly to the southwest. Price’s voice came over the comm a few minutes later with the all clear. Chisnall sat up and folded his camo sheet. Around him, five rocky lumps morphed into soldiers.

“One more klick and we’ll be near the river,” Chisnall said. “We should make that easily before it gets too light. There’s
a small depression in the rock below a cliff face. We’ll camp there during the daylight hours. It’ll give us some shadow, and a bit of cover.”

At the dry riverbed, they treated themselves to a meal of the alien food-in-a-tube and a self-heating drink sachet that tasted like blood.

Chisnall checked his GPS. They had covered over thirty kilometers. Good going for the first night. His legs and back were aching and he dry-swallowed a painkiller.

“Wilton, take the first watch,” he said. “Then Price, Hunter, Brogan. Monster, you take the last.”

Nods and grunts acknowledged the instruction. Chisnall looked around the faces of the team, spending longer on Price than the others. Did he trust her to take watch? Did he trust any of them? Not after what had happened. But there was no choice. Watch had to be kept, and if he left out any of the team, that would just make his suspicions plain.

The sun was stretching its arms on the eastern horizon, and with the day came the bush flies. Clouds of them, unbothered by waving hands or insect repellent. They went for the eyes, nose, and mouth—anything moist.

Chisnall watched Monster squeeze a hefty amount of green goo into his mouth from the tube. Flies covered his lips and would occasionally dart inside when he opened his mouth. It didn’t seem to worry Monster. He just kept on chewing, only
stopping to grin at Chisnall with teeth covered in green with tiny black flecks.

Chisnall gave up trying to eat in the open air and retreated under his camo sheet. Squashing the flies that came under with him, he ate his meal in the cool darkness beneath. He had chosen his position carefully—against the cliff face, in a small V-shaped ridge slightly away from the others.

The rock was hard, but they each had a self-inflating sleeping bag. After eating, Chisnall lay facedown on top of his. He tried lying on his back, but a wash of fiery pain quickly changed his mind. Facedown was a little more comfortable and he could easily have slept, but didn’t. He didn’t even bother taking off his body armor. He lay down as if sleeping but kept his eye to one of the pinholes. If anyone approached with murder on their mind, he would be ready.

The day began. The heat rose. Even under the thermal camo sheet, it became uncomfortably hot. Chisnall sipped water to keep hydrated and tried to stretch the pain out of his back and legs. He kept one hand on his sidearm, just in case.

He scanned the riverbed in both directions. To the northeast was the squatting bulk of Mount Morris. Anywhere else in the world, it would have been called a hill rather than a mountain, but in this flat world, it towered over its surroundings.

When Chisnall was eleven, he had gone to summer camp. They had hiked high into the mountains, to a clearing with log cabins. The camp helpers were mostly older teens. There had been tree climbing, mudslides, and ziplines, but the
best thing about it was the feeling of being away from adult supervision most of the time.

It felt like an exciting adventure.

At the beginning, this mission had had the same kind of feeling. The six of them, out on their own. No adults to tell them what to do. But the tampering with his half-pipe had changed all that. This was no longer an adventure. It was no longer fun. It had turned deadly serious. He would have given anything to be back at that camp.

THROUGH THE PINHOLE IN HIS CAMO SHEET, CHISNALL saw that Price had pulled a prizzem (a kind of miniature Bzadian football) out of her pack and was tossing it up in the air. She tossed it to Wilton, who caught it deftly and flicked it on to Brogan. Hunter moved closer, sat beside them, and joined in the game.

The four of them tossed the ball back and forth aimlessly for a few minutes. They looked tired, but it was hard to go to sleep when the day was just beginning.

“What’s the LT like, Brogan?” Price asked in a quiet voice. “You know him better than any of us.”

She clearly didn’t think her voice would carry that far, or she thought Chisnall was already asleep. But he had unusually good hearing and was wide-awake.

“What do you mean by that?” Brogan asked.

Price shrugged. “Didn’t mean anything. Just asking a question.”

Brogan glanced over toward Chisnall before replying. “He’s a good sort. He’s all right.”

“How’d he get the medal?” Wilton asked, stretching to catch a high ball from Price.

Under the camo sheet, Chisnall’s hand instinctively reached toward his left breast pocket. The medal was not there, of course. It was in his locker back at base. The medal earned him a lot of respect among the other soldiers, but its presence reminded him of something he’d rather forget. Two years before, during the Ice Wars, he had been attached as an observer to a forward command post. When the Bzadians made a big push, he had found himself behind enemy lines. What had happened next had earned him the Distinguished Service Medal and nightmares that didn’t seem to fade with time.

“I don’t know,” Brogan said. She was lying, but only Chisnall knew that.

“You should be honored to be serving under a genuine war hero,” Hunter said.

“He doesn’t look like a hero,” Wilton said.

“What does a hero look like, Wilton?” Hunter asked.

“Not like the LT, that’s for sure,” said Wilton.

“That’s what makes him so dangerous,” Brogan said. “If he was ten feet tall and bulletproof, everyone would treat him that way. But he just looks ordinary.”

“Harmless,” Price agreed.

“By the time you figure out that he’s really the meanest, deadliest son of a butcher in the valley, it’s already too late,” Brogan said.

“Are we talking about the same dude?” Wilton asked. “Our LT? The fearless leader who’s so tough that he’s already gone for a cup of tea and a lie-down.”

“Think what you like,” Brogan said. “I’d tell you not to underestimate him, but that’s pointless. The moment you look at him, you’ve already underestimated him.”

Chisnall grinned. Not entirely true, but it didn’t hurt your reputation with the troops to have your sergeant shovel around a little awe and mystique.

“As for the lie-down,” Brogan said, “have you forgotten that the LT landed on a deflated half-pipe? Must have knocked the pudding out of his body. I’m surprised he can even walk. But how many times have you heard him complain?”

“I guess,” Wilton said.

Brogan tossed the ball to Hunter and stood up, walking toward Chisnall’s position.

He watched her approach. She had already removed her body armor in preparation for sleeping, and the tight Bzadian battle tunic and leggings were damp from the night’s sweat and the beginning of the day’s heat. They clung to her body like a swimsuit.

She stood over him and he heard her voice through the fabric of the camo sheet.

“Awake, LT?”

“Am now.”

“How’s the legs?”

He peeled back a corner of the sheet and twisted his head to look up at her.

“All good.”

“Really.” It was clear she didn’t believe him. “Thought I saw you lagging a bit on the last section.”

“I wasn’t lagging. I was just enjoying the scenery.”

“I’d better have a look, eh?”

“At the scenery?”

“At your legs.”

“Got nothing better to do?”

“Nope.”

She went to her backpack and returned with her own camo sheet. Interlocking one edge of her sheet with his, she wedged a couple of sticks into a crack in the rock to create a bivouac. Her flashlight flicked on and the silver thermal underside of the makeshift tent lit up like a carnival.

To be safe, Chisnall turned his comm mike off, and she did the same.

“I’m so glad you’re still alive,” she said in a low voice, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Not in front of the children,” he said quietly.

“God, Ryan, I was so worried,” she said, lying down next to him.

“Holly, don’t,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“You shouldn’t even be on this mission,” he said. “I specifically requested that you not be included.”

“And I specifically requested to be on the team,” she said. “Why didn’t you want me along? Got your eye on Price?”

“You know that’s not true,” he said. “I’m just not sure I could take it if you got killed or injured.”

“
You
almost were,” she said. “How do you think I felt?”

“That’s what I’m talking about. That’s why you shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“I’m the best one for the job, and you know it,” she said.

He was silent for a moment. She
was
the best one for the job. The best soldier he had ever met and a trained medic, and she spoke the Bzadian dialects like a native. If not for their relationship, she would have been the first one he would have picked for the mission.

He said, “That isn’t going to make it any easier if one of us gets killed.”

“Better than sitting back at camp worrying.”

Chisnall was silent. She had a point.

They had been going out for six months, but they had kept it secret because of the camp’s strict rules outlawing relationships between soldiers. It was a romance of sneaky meetings and stolen moments. He wondered sometimes if she would have looked at him twice if they had met in another place, under different circumstances.

“I’d better have a look at your legs. Where does it hurt most?” she asked.

“Everywhere,” he said.

“Let’s have a look, then, shall we?” she said.

“Yes, doctor.”

She unclipped the body armor from his legs, then gently peeled back the cuff of his leggings.

“Hmmm,” she said.

“What’s the prognosis, doctor?”

“Take ’em off,” she said.

“My legs? They’re not detachable.”

“Your leggings—unless you want me to do it for you.”

“I’ll manage,” Chisnall said. He unfastened his Bzadian army leggings and Brogan helped him ease them off.

“Hmmm,” she said again.

He twisted around to look. In the glow of Brogan’s flashlight, he could see that the skin down the backs of his legs was dark and purplish, with vivid patches of red. On top of the green-yellow mottling of the Bzadian skin coloring, it created a truly nauseating mixture of colors. He twisted back.