The Assault

4. HUNTER



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.

“How does that feel?” she asked, gently touching his calf. “Was that you, or did I just get stung by a bee?” he asked. “Grit your teeth,” she said, which didn’t sound promising. He gritted.

She pressed firmly on the back of his thigh with what felt like a sharp knife, heated white-hot—but when he looked, it was only her fingers.

“Hematoma,” she said. “I’d better have a look at your back.”

She helped him again with the body armor and removed the battle tunic for him when he had trouble twisting his shoulders around to do it. From her drawing in of breath, it was clear his back was worse than his legs.

“Will I live?” he asked.

“If we could preserve this, it could be an exhibit in a museum of modern art,” she said. “Very psychedelic. Any doctor would confine you to a week in the hospital.”

“Just as well you’re not a doctor,” Chisnall said.

“You’re in no shape to continue this mission,” she said.

He was quiet for a moment, knowing she was probably right. “I wish I had that choice,” he said eventually.

“You’ve taken some painkillers?”

“Yep.”

“Working?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll put some topical analgesic on it for you,” Brogan said. “At least you might be able to sleep.”

“Thanks,” Chisnall said.

She disappeared to get it out of her backpack and was back a moment later, pulling on rubber gloves. Then she squeezed the ointment onto her hands, warming it for a moment.

“You’re sure this stuff works on humans?” Chisnall asked. All their equipment and supplies were Bzadian army issue.

“That’s what they tell us,” Brogan said. She spread it softly on his skin, starting with his calves and working her way up. The mere touch of her hands was like fire but she kneaded his flesh gently, massaging in the cream. Slowly, the pain in his legs softened to a dull ache.

“What are you two doing in there?” Price called.

“Playing doctor,” Brogan said.

“Why do officers get all the fun?” Hunter said.

“Yeah, this is real fun,” Chisnall said. It felt as though Brogan were sandpapering the skin off his shoulders and rubbing salt in the raw, bloodied flesh beneath. He held his breath to stop from crying out, until the painkiller took effect and his shoulders returned to something near normal.

She finished, stripped off the gloves, and lay down on her back next to him. For a moment they really were just two teenagers on a camping trip, not two soldiers behind enemy lines on a vital and deadly mission. He felt like kissing her.

“Ryan, what’s really going on? Something tells me there’s more to this mission than meets the eye.”

The fabric of the bivouac moved a little. Perhaps it was just a brief puff of breeze, but something told him otherwise. Brogan opened her mouth to continue, but Chisnall held a finger to his lips. He cocked his head, listening. There! Was that just the slightest shuffle of a footstep outside?

He nodded to Brogan, who caught his meaning instantly. She reached down, gripped the edge of the camo sheet, and flung it back.

Hunter was squatting just outside. He looked awkward and embarrassed.

“Shouldn’t you be on watch?” Brogan asked.

“Just wanting a word with the skipper,” Hunter said.

“Go ahead,” Chisnall said.

“It can wait,” Hunter said. “It was just … Nah, I’ll talk to you later.”

He walked away, down to the riverbed. Chisnall watched him go. How long had he been standing there, listening to their conversation? Did he really have something to say, or was that just an excuse?

Brogan closed the flap again. “We’re in-country now,” she said. “About time you filled me in.”

“Can’t do that, soldier,” Chisnall said.

“What’s the reason for all the secrecy?” Brogan asked.

“I have very specific orders,” Chisnall replied.

“Back at Fort Carson, you weren’t a strict follower of orders,” Brogan said, and the side of her leg brushed against his. He moved his leg away. This was not the time, nor the place.

“We’re not back at Fort Carson,” Chisnall said.

“Who picked the team?” Brogan asked.

“I had some say in it.”

“What jerk picked Wilton?” she asked. “Every time he opens his mouth, you just don’t know what’s going to come out of it. I’m terrified that he’s going to give the game away to the Pukes once we get inside the base.”

“This jerk picked him,” Chisnall said. “Wilton’s a little loose. But who else do you know who could shoot the eye out of a fast-moving eagle at five hundred meters, and do it three times in a row?”

“He’s got that,” Brogan admitted. “But it’s not going to be much help if we’re sitting in a Puke jail cell or blindfolded and lined up against a wall.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Now Price I understand. If we’d left it up to the Kiwi Phantom, she’d have been inside that rock and back out by now and the Pukes would never know she’d been there. But what about Monster? He’s not exactly the quiet, stealthy type.”

Chisnall laughed. “True. But if it really hits the fan, is there anyone else you’d rather have on your side?”

“Another slow mover heading our way,” Hunter’s voice said in his ear.

Chisnall flicked his mike on. “Copy that. All Angels remain in cover.”

He flicked the mike off again and moved his eye back to one of the pinholes. The menacing, rounded shape of an enemy rotorcraft appeared low over the riverbed.

It was quartering the desert. This was not just a regular patrol.

“They’re searching for something,” he said.

“For us?” Brogan asked. “Why would they be searching for us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see how they’d know about us. Maybe they’re just being careful.”

He watched the saucerlike shape for a few moments until it moved off to the south.

“How does it feel to be back?” he asked.

“In Australia” was the unfinished end of the sentence.

Brogan shook her head. “It was ten years ago. I was just a kid. And I grew up in Sydney. The outback is just as foreign to me as it is to you.”

“I know,” Chisnall said. “But it’s still your country. Don’t you feel some sense of belonging? Of ownership?”

“A little,” she said. “More a feeling of injustice.”

“It must have been hard to leave,” Chisnall said.

“You could say that,” Brogan said. “That was the night my parents were killed.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry,” Chisnall said.

“That last night …” Brogan paused.

Chisnall said nothing, giving her some space.

“We were trying to get out,” Brogan said. “Part of the Darwin evacuation. My dad was government, so we were on the Pukes’ restricted list. But we had false identities, disguises, the whole works. We were actually on the ship and it was heading out to sea when the Bzadians found out. They …”

“It’s okay,” Chisnall said. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“They sank the ship. The whole bloody ship.”

“Oh my God. You were on the Campbelltown! You never told me that.”

The sinking of the Campbelltown, a passenger liner full of civilians, was one of the worst atrocities of the evacuation of Australia.

“They sank it because my parents were on it. Only a handful of us survived.”

He looked at her. Tears were freely flowing down her cheeks, although she made no sound. Chisnall put out a hesitant hand and touched her on the shoulder. She moved closer and he put his arm around her shoulders, holding her. His tortured back screamed fire, despite the painkillers, but still he drew her close.

After a few moments, she let out one tense, constricted sob and then was silent.

“You’d better get some sleep,” he said.

“We all had,” Brogan said, making no attempt to move.

“Better find your own spot,” Chisnall said after a moment. “We don’t want to give the others the wrong idea.”

“That could be a little awkward,” Brogan agreed. She sat up.

He found himself wishing she would stay. But the focus had to be the mission. He couldn’t afford any distractions. Brogan dismantled the bivouac and spread his camo sheet back out over him. He watched her as she strode back toward the river.

I can’t afford any distractions.

He held that thought for a while. Then, as the sun rose higher and the day heated up, and despite his best intentions, he slept.

Later, the wind came again, bringing the desert with it. This time the sandstorm was longer but not as ferocious. Chisnall hunkered down under his camo sheet and knew that the others would be doing the same. The storm lessened, then gradually dissipated, growling up in sporadic bursts until it finally died away altogether. He didn’t mind the daytime sandstorms. They gave them good cover from the Bzadians and blocked some of the heat of the sun.

It didn’t occur to him till later that they also blocked the view of the satellites that were monitoring them, nor that that might suit the purposes of one particular member of the team.


Night falls slowly in the desert. As the sun sank below the horizon, it was as if a painter had taken an airbrush to the western sky, creating a work of art in rich orange and red hues, streaked with violet.

A small yellowish brown lizard, its body covered with a netlike pattern, camped on a rock just in front of Chisnall’s nose, completely oblivious to the soldier under the camo sheet just a few inches away.

Chisnall stirred, and the lizard, startled at the rock coming to life, darted under a clump of porcupine grass.

Chisnall awoke with a strange feeling.

Something is wrong.

He felt cold, but not physically. The shivering was much deeper than that. He’d asked his mother about the feeling once when he was younger, and she’d said it came from his soul. He wasn’t so sure about that, but he did know that each time the strangeness came, it always meant bad things. Like the night the army men, in their bright, shiny dress uniforms and white gloves, had knocked on the door in the middle of the night to give them the news about his father. Chisnall sat up. His muscles seemed to have turned into cold chewing gum while he slept, and he tried to twist and stretch to get some movement back into them. He crawled out from under his camo sheet and painfully stood up, scanning around them for any sign of danger.

Monster was on watch.

“Anything on the scope?” Chisnall asked.

Monster shook his head. “Plenty of air mobiles up north, but here is quiet. Thought I picked up some foot mobiles one hour ago, but is turn out to be kangaroos.”

They were clear. Yet the shivering of his soul was not diminishing. He shrugged it off. They were in the heart of New Bzadia. Everything around them, everybody, was a danger. Perhaps it was just nerves.

“Get ’em up,” Chisnall said.

Monster grinned and called out, “Okay, my dudes, up, up, up. Is beautiful evening in Camp Chisnall, and we have lots fun activities for you.”

There was a chorus of groans.

“What’s for breakfast?” Wilton asked, emerging from under his sheet.

“Green toothpaste,” Chisnall replied cheerfully. “Smells like vomit, tastes like phlegm, and gives you the most colorful poop.”

“Do Pukes really eat this stuff?” Wilton grumbled.

“It’s their army rations,” Brogan said. “They probably hate it as much as we hate our MREs.”

Meals ready to eat had been the bane of the combat soldier’s life since forever.

“I’d give my right arm for an MRE right about now,” Wilton said.

“Just eat your greens or you can’t have pudding,” Brogan said.

Chisnall laughed and looked around. “Somebody go wake Hunter. Tell him he can’t sleep all day and all night too.”

“LT!” There was something in Price’s voice.

Chisnall’s primary weapon was in his hands before he even had time to think. He was on his feet, scanning the horizon.

“Over here,” Price said, her voice coming in gulps between short breaths. She had peeled back a corner of Hunter’s camo sheet.

Specialist Stephen Huntington was dead.

His face was contorted and red, as if he had been fighting for breath. There was froth around his mouth and a dribble of vomit down his cheek. His eyes were fixed, wide and staring.

“Drop the camo,” Chisnall said. “Move back slowly.” He was conscious of the others crowding around. “Get back, all of you.”

“What the—” Wilton started.

“Brogan, if he can’t be quiet, shut him up for me,” Chisnall said.

He extended the long snout of his weapon and lifted the sheet, flicking it up and away down the rock. Hunter was still in his sleeping bag, but his body was not relaxed. It was distorted in hideous contortions, his arms and legs locked at strange angles beneath the inflated padding of the sleeping bag that was pulled tight around his neck.

Chisnall took a step closer and used his weapon to loosen the top of the sleeping bag. There was a sudden chafing noise, like two pieces of fabric rubbing together. He lifted it higher and an olive-green snake with black checkered scales appeared at the mouth of the bag, raising its head as if to attack before slithering quickly over the rocks and down toward the river.

The hard man of the refugee camps had been no match for a creature of the Australian desert.

“Damn! Inland taipan,” Brogan said. “Deadliest snake in the world.”

“Unlucky dude,” Wilton said.

“You think?” Price said.

“From now on, everybody check your sleeping bags before you crawl into them,” Brogan said. “We don’t want anyone else to get unlucky.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

Unlucky was right, Chisnall thought. But not for the reason that they thought. Seven of the deadliest snakes in the world live in Australia. But this was too much of a coincidence, especially after the sabotaged half-pipe. And the inland taipan might be the deadliest snake in the world, but it was also one of the shyest. It did not attack unless threatened, and the chances of one crawling into Hunter’s sleeping bag were slim. And why hadn’t Hunter cried out? A taipan’s bite was deadly, but death was not instantaneous. The only reason Chisnall could think of was that Hunter had already been unconscious when he had been bitten.

But why? Had Hunter seen or heard something? Had he interrupted the traitor in another act? If so, what was it?

“Bury him,” he said. “And his gear. Except for the laser comm. Brogan, you take that. And eat your breakfast. We are Oscar Mike in twenty.”

Brogan extracted the laser comm unit from Hunter’s backpack while the rest of them prepared a hole in the sand. Chisnall recorded the GPS coordinates of the grave. That was standard practice behind enemy lines, in case there was ever an opportunity in the future to recover the body.

“LT.” It was Brogan.

“What is it?” Chisnall asked.

“The laser comm, it’s nonfunctional.”

“Let me have a look,” Chisnall said.

He knelt down beside her and examined the unit. It powered up okay, but when he pressed the test switch, the diagnostic lights glowed red instead of green. He shook it a couple of times in case there was just something loose inside it, but the unit refused to work.

“Sh-shoot,” he said, slamming a hand into the desert floor. Sand sprayed in all directions. “Shoot, shoot, shoot!” Without the laser comm, they had no way of communicating with their base. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Displays of emotion like that helped nobody.

“What do we do, LT?” Brogan asked.

“Bring it anyway. Maybe it’ll start working again.”

He doubted that would happen, just as he doubted that it was a coincidence that it had stopped working. Under cover of the sandstorm, someone had sabotaged the single most important piece of equipment they carried. Hunter must have had his suspicions. Maybe he’d caught them in the act, and the result of that was the snake in his sleeping bag. Chisnall mentally kicked himself. If only he’d taken the time to listen to Hunter earlier.

“Jeez, Ryan,” Brogan said, shaking her head. “We can’t carry on now. Even if we find something, we won’t be able to let base know what we’ve found.”

“Just get moving,” Chisnall said.

“Seriously, LT, perhaps we should ease up for a bit,” Brogan said. “Most of these guys have never even seen a dead body before, let alone someone they know. A friend of theirs. They might need a little time to get their heads around it.”

“My orders are to proceed to Uluru without delay,” Chisnall said.

She shook her head slowly. “Hunter just died. Don’t you feel anything?”

He did. That was the problem.

“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” he said.

“Ryan, I know what happened in Bering Strait,” she said. “But—”

Chisnall stood and eyeballed her. “Don’t go there, Sergeant Brogan,” he said. “You asked. I answered. We are Oscar Mike in twenty. Get him buried. Deep, so the dingoes don’t get him.”

Specialist Stephen Huntington was sixteen.

He was the first Angel to die.