The Assault

7. BELLY OF BEAST



[MISSION DAY 5]

[0530 hours]

[Benda Hill, New Bzadia]

THE WRECKAGE OF THE INNER FENCE WAS A TANGLED metal cobweb lying across the remains of the dragon’s-teeth tank traps.

“Land mine,” Price said over the top of an insistent beeping from her scope.

Chisnall stopped dead. They all did. They were walking in single file, four meters apart, treading in the footprints of the person in front. Standard precautions for walking through a minefield.

Except there shouldn’t have been any land mines. The cruise missiles had ripped through here, pummeling the desert floor, punching a hole through this section of the defenses. The churned sand of the desert should have been cleared of mines by the rippling shock waves of the explosions.

“Are you sure?” Chisnall asked, but only as an automatic reaction. Of course she was sure. She wouldn’t have said it if she wasn’t.

“Two o’clock. Distance: three meters,” Price said. “And a bit.”

“Three meters.” Chisnall breathed out slowly.

The alien mines had proximity detectors. You didn’t have to stand on them to set them off: if they detected movement within three meters, they would explode, kicking a shrapnel canister high into the air, killing or maiming everything around it.

They were just on the verge of triggering the mine.

“Back away slowly,” Chisnall said.

“Good idea, LT,” Price said. “Should have thought of that myself.”

Chisnall ignored her. Things were tense enough. Price was already moving backward, retracing her steps.

“Options?” Chisnall asked.

“Looks clear to the left,” Price said.

“Take it slowly,” Chisnall said.

“You think?” Price said.

Twice more they found their path blocked by mines. One an antipersonnel mine and one an antitank mine. They were unlikely to set off the ATM, as it was keyed to large metallic objects, but they avoided it anyway. The explosive power of the ATMs was enormous, although they were not as deadly. Not to humans anyway. The charge was focused straight upward, without the shrapnel spread pattern of the antipersonnel mines.

They moved through the main fence and past the pulverized base of one of the guard towers. Its automatic coil-guns whirred and clicked, sensing their presence, but the bent, broken snouts just shook angry fingers at the sky.

In the distance, Uluru glowed red: a warning beacon in the early morning sun.

The two SAS men, in their RAF disguises, walked silently in front of them, their hands manacled behind their backs.

“How far is it?” Wilton asked, eyeing the red rock behemoth in the distance. It was hard to judge scale in the desert.

“We’re in the exclusion zone. It’s about two hours of hard tabbing from here to the base itself,” Chisnall said. “We want to get there while everything is still in chaos from the raid.”

From this distance, chaos looked to be an understatement. A pall of smoke hung over Uluru from what must have been hundreds of fires, burning fiercely.

“Like the fires of Hades,” Chisnall murmured.

“Call hell and tell them the Angels are coming,” Brogan said.

“I just remembered that I have this really important appointment,” Wilton said.

“Where’s that?” Price asked.

“Anywhere,” Wilton said. “Anywhere but here.”

“Not me,” Brogan said. “There’s no place I’d rather be. We’ve really hurt the Pukes for the first time, and this is our chance to stick the knife in.”

“There’s a whole lot of places I’d rather be,” Price said.

“Yeah, like ten-buck-pizza Sundays at Hell’s Kitchen,” Wilton said.

“Mmmmm, pizza,” Monster agreed. “Best food in the world!”

“I hate to break it to you,” Chisnall said, “but there are better things in this world than melted cheese and processed meat on a bread-dough base.”

“Mmmmm, pizza,” Monster said again.

“The best thing in the world is not food,” Wilton said. “It’s when you’re shredding down the monkey trails. That’s beautiful, dude. That’s better than sex.”

“Like you’d know,” Price said.

“I know more than you think,” Wilton said, trying to look mysterious and not pulling it off.

“Really?” Price asked. “You ever even kissed a girl, Wilton?”

“Or a guy, whatever,” Brogan said.

“Shut up,” Wilton said.

“Didn’t think so,” Price said. “You want to know the best thing in the world? It’s your first real kiss. You’ll find out one day.”

“Phantom, you’ve been reading too many romance novels,” Chisnall said.

“I think I just puked in my mouth,” Wilton said.

They arrived at the lip of an enormous crater where one of the missiles had landed. It was wide but shallow, a quirk of the explosion and the geology of the underlying rock. Rather than skirt around it, Chisnall led the team down the soft, pulverized sand. Their boots slipped and skidded down the slope, creating mini landslides. The acrid after-smell of explosive was strong here. Parts of a tail fin protruded from the earth on the far side of the crater.

“What about you, Monster?” Brogan asked. “What do you think is the best thing in the world?”

“Well, my dude, the Monster thinks that nothing beats a really good fart.”

There was a second’s silence before the entire team burst into laughter.

“Evolution kinda skipped your family, didn’t it?” Price said.

“So who wins?” Wilton asked. “Do we get to vote?”

“I’m not voting for Monster’s fart,” Price said.

“There’s no voting,” Chisnall said. “I get to pick the winner.”

“Why’s that?” Brogan asked.

“Because I’m the lieutenant,” Chisnall said. “That’s just the way it works. This is not a democracy.”

“How come you’re the LT?” Wilton asked. “You stronger or smarter than the rest of us?”

“No, Wilton, just better-looking,” Chisnall said.

“Uh-uh, LT, you sho ain’t purty,” Wilton said. “Now, Sergeant Brogan, she’s purty.”

“You want some of this, soldier?” Brogan asked.

“If you bought me flowers and a nice dinner, I’d think about it,” Wilton said.

Chisnall laughed. “I wouldn’t if I were you. She’d chew you up and spit out the grisly bits for target practice.”

“Wilton,” Brogan said, “no offense, but I wouldn’t feed you to my dog.”

“Brogan,” Wilton said, “do you ever wish you’d been born a boy?”

“No, how about you?” Brogan asked.

“Ground mobiles, ten o’clock,” Price said. “Two of them. Small. Jeeps or Land Rovers. About three klicks out.”

“Heading our way?” Chisnall asked.

“Not yet,” Price said.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Chisnall said.

It didn’t.

They were up out of the massive crater now. The light of the day was increasing with every minute and the clouds of dust from the vehicles were already visible without binoculars, rising in a red-gray plume to the northwest.

“They’re turning,” Price said. “Must have picked us up. Coming this way.”

Chisnall took a deep breath. This was it. Contact with the enemy. This was what they had trained for. “Okay, everybody stay frosty,” he said. “We’re just a Puke patrol returning with some prisoners.”

“Think they’ll buy it?” Wilton asked.

“No reason why they shouldn’t,” Chisnall replied. “But the action code is dingo. If you hear that, all hell is about to break loose.”

“Booyah,” Wilton said. “Gonna kick some Puke butt today.”

“Not unless I give you the code,” Chisnall said. “Otherwise, we’re just a Puke patrol. Now listen up. No English. Bzadian only. Try not to talk any more than you have to.”

“Which dialect?” Monster asked.

“This from the dude who can’t even speak English,” Wilton said.

“Stick to Corziz,” Chisnall said. They all spoke at least three of the alien languages, but Corziz was the most common.

“He’s serious, kids,” Brogan said. “Anything could trip us up. It might be something about our appearance. Or a word used in the wrong way. It might be the way you blink.”

“If anything tips the alien patrol off that we are not what we seem, then the whole Angel program is for nothing,” Chisnall said.

They were well trained. That wasn’t really what worried him. What worried him was the traitor. Would he or she say or do something to give them up to the patrol? He had to be ready for that. He had to be ready for anything. Without being obvious, he moved up close behind Price.

The far-off plumes of dust grew in size, as did the lingering haze behind them. Two black dots turned into shimmering blobs, then morphed into toy cars, then into Land Rovers. Long-range patrol vehicles (LRPVs), three-seaters. A driver, a passenger, and a gunner position with a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted high behind the two front seats. The rear of the vehicle was a cargo tray.

A few minutes later, the vehicles were close enough for Chisnall to see that they still had their Australian Army markings. The Land Rovers skidded to a halt in the soft dust alongside the Angels, enveloping them for a moment in a mini dust storm.

Showtime, Chisnall thought.

There were no doors on the LRPVs. A tall Bzadian lieutenant swung his legs over the side of the vehicle and stepped down. His uniform had the insignia of the Republican Guards. Chisnall suspected that, judging from his height, he was probably a bobble-head.

There were many races within the Bzadian species. The bobble-heads were one of the more easily identified races because of their unusually tall size (for Bzadians) and their odd habit of nodding while talking.

Chisnall gave Bennett a harsh shove in his back as the lieutenant approached. The SAS man stumbled on his injured leg and fell. Cruel but effective, Chisnall thought. Fleming glared at him and helped Bennett back to his feet. The alien lieutenant glanced at the two SAS men and his nostrils flared with distaste.

Chisnall breathed out slowly. This was the moment. The first real test of the whole Angel program. Years in development and years of training, bone remodeling, skin recoloring, learning language and culture. It all came down to this. Could he and his team pass themselves off as Bzadians? They had tested their disguises in POW camps, but those were artificial environments, and closely monitored. If they had got it wrong, then help was only a few seconds away.

This was the real deal.

The driver of the first Land Rover, a female, got out as well, and they were joined by all three soldiers from the rear vehicle. None of the aliens made any attempt to unholster their weapons, but with the spring-mounted holsters, their weapons would be in their arms in a heartbeat if required. In any case, the machine gunner on the front Land Rover—a young, nervous-looking soldier—had them well covered with the fifty-cal.

The aliens showed interest, Chisnall thought, but no alarm. So far so good.

“You’re a long way out,” the lieutenant said by way of a greeting, his head bobbing up and down as he talked.

“And glad to see a set of wheels,” Chisnall said. “It’s a long walk back. I’m Chizna.” He raised a clenched fist to his shoulder in what passed for both a salute and a greeting among the enemy soldiers.

“Yozi,” the lieutenant said, returning the salute.

“Zabet,” Yozi’s driver said. Bzadian females—the soldiers at least—usually kept their hair short, but Zabet’s hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail. It made her look almost human.

Yozi noticed Chisnall glancing up at the soldier on the fifty-cal and said, “Kezalu, point that thing somewhere else before it goes off.”

The young soldier looked a little embarrassed and raised the barrel of the gun to the sky.

“He’s new,” Yozi said, his head bobbing.

“We all were, once,” Chisnall said.

Yozi surprised him by laughing, a short bark. “Hah! Not Alizza.” He nodded at one of the soldiers from the second vehicle. “He was born with a coil-gun in each hand.”

Alizza grinned, revealing a mouthful of bad teeth, and in the midst of everything, Chisnall found himself wondering why a race with the technology to travel light-years across space couldn’t sort out a little dentistry issue.

“Looks like a lot of damage out this way,” Yozi said. He scanned the cratered landscape behind them. “The fence is gone.”

“Perhaps a rogue missile,” Chisnall said. “It did a lot of damage. We were able to walk right through the minefield without problem.”

“A rogue missile?” Yozi said, bobbing and shaking his head at the same time. “I can see at least three craters from here. I think it was a deliberate attack on the perimeter.”

“It could have been,” Chisnall agreed.

Yozi didn’t miss a thing. They would have to be especially careful around him.

“Any sign of other scumbugz out there?” Yozi asked. “They must have attacked the perimeter for a reason. Perhaps a ground attack.”

“No.” Chisnall shook his head. “And if there was a scumbugz army out there, we would have seen it.”

“Where did you find these ones?” Yozi asked.

“Just past the hill,” Chisnall said. He pointed in the direction they had traveled with a flat hand. Bzadians never pointed with a finger.

“What were you doing out there?” Yozi asked, frowning.

Chisnall said, “Looking for these scumbugz. We were part of a scouting party. But our rotorcraft bugged out in a big hurry just before the air raid.”

There was a meaningful glance between Yozi and his driver. Chisnall wondered if he had said something wrong. But his worry was misplaced.

“From Central Field?” Yozi asked.

“Yes,” Chisnall replied, hoping that was the right answer.

“You were lucky,” Yozi said. “The airfield was hit just after they landed.”

“Are they okay?” Chisnall asked. He tried to inject a tone of concern into his voice.

“The rotorcraft took a direct hit,” Yozi said. “There was nothing larger than a sierfruit left.”

That was a small Bzadian fruit about the size of an egg.

Chisnall looked at him for a moment, then said in a cool voice, “There were friends of mine on that craft.”

Yozi covered his face for a moment with both hands, the Bzadian gesture of apology. “Who are the scumbugz?”

“From their uniforms, downed pilots,” Chisnall said. “I don’t speak human well enough to question them.”

“Forward spotters, more likely,” Yozi said. “Which language do you think they speak? Young Kezalu speaks a little human-Chinese.”

“I don’t know.” Chisnall feigned ignorance. “They don’t look human-Chinese.”

“They all look the same to me,” Yozi said. He looked closely at the RAF uniforms. “Their markings are human-English, I think.”

Chisnall walked over to Fleming and kicked him viciously in the leg, just pulling back at the last moment so it seemed more violent than it actually was. Fleming clutched at his leg and told Chisnall several very unpleasant things about his mother.

“What do you think?” Chisnall asked. “Sound like human-English?”

“Sounds like animals jabbering to me,” Yozi said. “Let’s get them back to base. Let the PGZ sort them out.”

Chisnall smiled and nodded but felt his guts clench up inside. Since the start of the war, stories had been filtering out of enemy-held territory about the Bzadian secret police, the PGZ. If the stories were true, the PGZ made the Russian KGB look like a support group.

It was said that it was better to die than to fall into the PGZ’s hands.

Brogan glanced at him, her expression neutral, but he knew what she was thinking. They were going to deliver two human prisoners to the worst Pukes on the planet. What she didn’t know was that they had planned for that possibility.

“What’s it like back at the base?” Chisnall asked.

“It’s a mess,” Yozi said, the grin disappearing instantly. “The scumbugz have hit us hard.”

“Everywhere?” Chisnall asked. Implied in the word was concern for his unit. It would be only natural in these circumstances for a soldier to be concerned about his friends and comrades.

“Yes. You’re with the Thirty-Fifth,” Yozi noted, his eyes flicking over Chisnall’s uniform. “I have no news on them apart from the rotorcraft crash.”

“As soon as we can, I’d like to return to my battalion HQ,” Chisnall said.

“Of course.” Yozi regarded him for a moment. Evaluating him. “It’s a good unit, the Thirty-Fifth,” he said.

“We are proud of it,” Chisnall said.

“You should be,” Yozi said, frowning a little. “What your battalion did in Moscow will make footsteps among the stars.”

“Be glad you were not there, my friend,” Chisnall said. Was that the right thing to say?

“Azoh! The Russian scumbugz would have taken one look at Alizza and given up without a fight,” Yozi said.

Alizza grinned fiercely again. He certainly looked like the kind of soldier you would want to have on your side in a battle, bad teeth and all.

The two SAS men were marched to the rear of the first of the patrol vehicles and made to lie on the cargo tray. Chisnall and Brogan climbed up with them, covering the “prisoners” with their sidearms. Wilton, Monster, and Price climbed into the back of the second vehicle. Alizza, after a quiet exchange with Yozi, well out of earshot, climbed onto the rear of the first vehicle, apparently not trusting Chisnall and Brogan to guard the prisoners properly.

Or perhaps to guard Chisnall and Brogan.

Chisnall smiled at him but got only a scowl in return.

Kezalu began to hum to himself as the Land Rovers took off, then to sing, a syncopated reggae-sounding Bzadian song, full of buzzes and clicks. The singing seemed more and more incongruous as they headed toward the pall of smoke in the distance that was the Uluru military base, but Kezalu didn’t seem affected by the rising devastation. He began tapping his fingers on the machine-gun mount, keeping his own rhythm. Chisnall caught Yozi’s eye and smiled. Yozi rolled his eyes.

Chisnall swapped glances with Brogan as they bumped and bounced across the tussock of the desert floor. He knew they were both thinking the same thing.

If Yozi was convinced, then they had just passed the first test.

If not, then they were about to be hand-delivered to the headquarters of the Bzadian secret police.

Lieutenant Lucky, they called him. He hoped his luck was not about to run out.