Ice War (25 page)

“Sure you know what you’re doing?” Bowden asked.

“No idea,” Wall said. “We’re making it up as we go.”

“As long as you’re having fun,” Price said. “We brought you some presents.”

They laid the explosives carefully on the floor near the hovercraft.

“Thanks,” Barnard said.

“Got a plan for those?” Price asked.

“Never know when a big bang might come in handy,” Barnard said and, unusually for her, she grinned.

“What can I do?” Price asked.

“Nothing,” Monster said. “Eat. Get some rest. We going nowhere tonight. But tomorrow is going to be big day.”

[MISSION DAY 2, FEBRUARY 17, 2033. 2145 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[ACOG EMERGENCY OPERATIONS CENTRE, RAVEN ROCK MOUNTAIN COMPLEX, PENNSYLVANIA]

The interrogation room was a brightly lit chamber, somewhere in the depths of the building. Exactly what building it was, Wilton was unsure. He had heard people referring to it as “The Rock”. It was the backup command and control centre for the ACOG military machine, and within an hour of the bombing, all those fit to continue had been bundled onto helicopters and flown here.

But someone, Wilton didn’t know who, had pointed out Wilton as the person who had left the room right before the bombing.

That had painted him a prime suspect.

He had been questioned for an hour, protesting his innocence loudly and vehemently.

Then both the interrogators, hard-faced men in dark suits, had left. For the last twenty minutes he had been alone.

He was supposed to ring Chisnall. In all the shock and disorientation of the bombing, he had not forgotten that. But they had taken his phone. Chisnall would be wondering why he hadn’t heard from him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

The doors opened at last and to his surprise, and no little discomfort, it was General Russell who entered, followed by an aide. He did not sit, but stood behind one of the chairs, leaning on it.

“I’ve been looking for you, son,” he said.

Wilton was unsure what to say.

“You were the liaison for the Angels,” Russell said.

Wilton nodded.

“Yes,” Russell said. “A translator, Bilal said. Seems he likes to play his cards close to his chest.”

“I had nothing to do with the bombing,” Wilton said.

“Of course not,” Russell said. He didn’t quite smile; it wasn’t a time for that, but his expression was friendly and genuine. “When I heard they were holding you, I told them exactly that.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wilton said.

“Bilal trusted you, so I trust you,” Russell said. “Besides, we think we have the actual bomber on video.”

“Is Mr Bilal all right?” Wilton asked. If Bilal was dead, then who else could he talk to about what he had found out? Certainly not Russell.

“Bilal’s in hospital,” Russell said. “He’ll be all right. How about you? How are you feeling?”

This was obviously a reference to the bandages on Wilton’s face.

“I’m fine, sir,” Wilton said. “Just minor cuts. I was very lucky.”

“Yes, you were,” Russell said. “Are you okay to travel?”

“Certainly, sir,” Wilton said.

“Good.”

The aide handed Wilton some papers.

“With the Angel mission over, there’s no need for you to stay,” Russell said. “So you’ve been released back to your unit.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wilton said.

“Take care, son,” Russell said.

[MISSION DAY 3, FEBRUARY 18, 2033. 0640 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[LITTLE DIOMEDE ISLAND, BERING STRAIT]

Price awoke to the sound of gunfire. Or had that been part of a dream?

The lights were low in the sleeping quarters, but she could see Barnard, sound asleep on a bunk on the opposite wall. On the bunk above her, Wall’s head was visible.

Was the gunfire real? It hadn’t woken the others.

She checked the time on her wrist computer and was angry to see that her one hour nap had turned into more than six hours sleep.

She rolled out of the bunk, snatching up her coil-gun on the way to the control room.

The Tsar was in the control chair as he had been earlier. He looked bleary, as though he too had dozed off.

“Did you hear those gunshots?” Price asked as she entered.

The Tsar looked up at her in surprise. “Price? You’re here?”

“Where else did you think I’d be?” she asked.

“Then who is that in the hangar with Monster?” The Tsar asked, pointing to two glowing dots on the movement sensor.

Price swore. She keyed her com. “Monster, is Bowden in there with you?”

“No, my dude,” came back the reply. “Am alone.”

“No, you’re not,” Price said.

The Tsar was already halfway out of his chair.

“No, stay here,” she said. “Wake up the others.”

She was already running for the tunnel to the hangar.

Monster circled the hovercraft carefully, the magnum in one hand and a heavy wrench in the other. He could see no one in the hangar, and there was nowhere to hide, except perhaps up on the hovercraft. Was Price sure? He had been busy connecting the tubing according to Barnard’s instructions and someone could have been sneaking around the hangar behind his back.

He had sent the others off to grab a short sleep. They all needed it. He had been certain that he was alone.

He was about to key the com and ask The Tsar to check when the sound of running footsteps made him look towards the tunnel.

He froze.

The tunnel emerged into the hangar on the west side of the building. There was no trapdoor, just a guardrail so you couldn’t accidentally fall in.

At the base of the guardrail he saw two claymore mines. Armed and ready. Anyone who came up those stairs was going to get their head blown off.

“Price!” he shouted. “Stop!”

Then a locomotive hit him from behind.

The magnum went flying across the floor in one direction, the wrench in another. Monster hit the concrete floor, hard.

Able was tall, not broad, but a mass of sinewy strength. Where he had been hiding, Monster had no idea. Nor did he care. All that mattered was breaking the grip of the man whose arm was around his neck, cutting off his air. He was pinned to the ground under Able’s weight. He twisted in the man’s arms, trying to breathe, to call out to Price, but no air came.

Price stopped halfway up the staircase.
Stop
, Monster had said. He had said that for a reason. But why? She could hear the sounds of a struggle above her. She took another step, peering above her for any sign of danger. There! At the base of the guardrail. The deadly grey shape of a claymore mine, triggered by motion. One step higher and she would have been dead.

Still the sounds of fighting came from above her. She would have to go around.

“Tsar!” she shouted, running back the way she had come. “Open the main hangar doors!”

Monster let go of the other man’s arm and brought his hands in close to his chest, the press-up position. He pushed down and millimetre by painful millimetre lifted himself, and Able, off the ground. When he had fully extended his arms, he twisted again, dropping one arm so that he and Able crashed to the floor on that side. Able’s grip loosened momentarily as they landed, and Monster was ready. He pulled the man’s arm away from his neck with both hands and tucked his chin to his chest to stop him doing it again. Able’s arm wrapped across his mouth, but Monster could breathe again, through his nose, sucking in huge lungfuls of air.

A blast of cold air hit him and snow swirled around. The main hangar doors were starting to open.

He pushed himself over on his back, lying on top of Able, who was refusing to let go. He put his legs flat on the floor on either side of the man, and lifted himself again, then thrust downwards. Being shorter than the tall man, his backside drove into Able’s belly, winding him. Able gasped, and in that instant Monster twisted again, breaking free and rolling away from his attacker.

Able was fast though; he was on his feet like a cat and diving across the floor.
The magnum!
Monster realised. He was after the magnum. Monster got to his feet and began to run, but he was way too late.

Able got there first. His hand found the magnum, even as he was still sliding across the floor, and began to swing it around towards Monster.

The gun came up in agonisingly slow motion. The black hole that was the muzzle looked like the entrance to a tunnel. A very long, dark tunnel.

But the gun didn’t fire.

The magnum began to drop again, as Able looked down in surprise at the metallic head of an Inupiat dart that was now protruding from his throat.

A dark shadow flitted across the half-open doors, silhouetted by the floodlights outside.

The White Wolf had finished his hunt.

[MISSION DAY 3, FEBRUARY 18, 2033. 0840 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[FORWARD OPERATIONS BASE, TIN CITY, ALASKA]

The spitfire pilot was not there when Wilton arrived, and after a few minutes of waiting he started going through the pre-combat checks, as he had been taught. He had about two hours before the mission briefing, and it was a good chance to re-familiarise himself with the craft.

The HC980-LD, Light Attack Craft, known as the spitfire, was a two-person hovercraft with short stubby wings. It could not fly, but it could jump, and even glide for quite a few metres if the air currents were favourable. The wings also held the craft’s main armament, six sidewinder missiles, three on each wing. They were of little use against the armoured and spinning hulls of the Bzadian battle tanks, but they were effective against rotorcraft and snowmobiles.

As gunner, he was seated in the front seat. The pilot, slightly elevated for visibility, sat behind. The machine gun was gimbal mounted and controlled by a joystick. He could aim it anywhere from thirty degrees left or right, and up or down about five degrees.

The spitfire, named after the famous British fighter plane of the 1940s, had defensive armament too. Six contact mines attached beneath the air cushion, that could be dropped in the path of a pursuing vehicle.

The spitfire was only lightly armoured, its main defence being its speed, and its ability to jump into the air. If it was weighed down by heavy armour, it would be sluggish and earthbound.