Ice War (5 page)

Bilal was small, black and dressed casually, as if he had no time for the uniforms and suits that were the dress standard in the Pentagon. He wore a light grey sports jacket over a T-shirt with a picture of the Cat in the Hat.

“You had your first contact?” he asked. It was a question, but Wilton was quite sure that Bilal already knew the answer. Bilal seemed to know the answer to everything.

“Yes, right on schedule,” Wilton said. “They’re on the ground and moving towards the first observation point.”

“Good,” Bilal said. “What time is the next check-in?”

“In about half an hour. That’s 13:30, mission time,” Wilton said, trying his best to sound professional and official.

“I’ll sit in on that one,” Bilal said, checking his watch. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

“Sir,” Wilton began, unsure how to frame his question.

“Yes, Blake,” Bilal said.

“It’s just that I don’t understand,” Wilton said. “I thought the Angel program was shut down.”

“That’s what we wanted you to think,” Bilal said. “That’s what we want everyone to think.”

“Why?” Wilton asked.

“Because that’s what we want the Bzadians to think,” Bilal said.

“But we, I mean they, are not really trained for this kind of mission,” Wilton said.

“We know that,” Bilal said. “But Angels have certain special qualifications that could prove to be more important than cold weather training. The first teams we sent in were arctic specialists and that didn’t seem to help them any.”

“Teams?” Wilton asked.

“Two Seal teams,” Bilal said.

“What happened to them?” Wilton asked.

“We don’t know,” Bilal said, shrugging. “Bad luck or bad timing. Or …”

“Or what?” Wilton asked.

“Or perhaps someone knew they were coming,” Bilal said.

As Wilton was pondering the implications of that, his personal phone rang. He queried Bilal with a glance. Bilal nodded.

It was Corporal Courtney Fox, one of the communications operators at Fort Carson, the Team Angel operation base.

“Hi, Courtney. How’s everyone back at Carson?” Wilton asked, not so much to exchange pleasantries as because Courtney needed a few seconds of his voice to establish vocal ID. It felt good to talk to someone from Fort Carson. Recon Team Angel had been the only place he had felt at home. Like he belonged. Hearing Courtney’s voice reminded him how much he missed it.

“We’re all good, Blake. Somehow it’s not the same without you around though,” Courtney said.

“You’re just saying that,” Wilton said. “Do you have a voice match yet? Or do you need me to keep talking.”

“Just came through,” Courtney said, with a pleasant laugh. “Hey, I have an incoming audio call for you, do you want me to route it through?”

“Who is it?” Wilton asked.

“She hasn’t identified herself, but she asked for you by name and gave all the correct security codes,” Courtney said.

“Put it through,” Wilton said.

“See you, Blake. Come back and visit,” Courtney said.

There was a slight click and the sound of her breathing was gone.

“Hello. Who is this?” Wilton asked.

It was not Price.

The woman’s voice was not one he recognised. It had a flat robotic sound.

“Can you talk freely?” she asked in a monotone.

“Not really,” Wilton said, with a glance at Bilal.

“Okay. Don’t say anything. Memorise this phone number, but don’t write it down.” She gave the number and said, “Call me back. Make sure you can’t be overheard.”

“Call who back?” Wilton asked.

“It’s Ryan,” she said.

“Who?” Wilton asked.

“Chisnall,” she said.

[MISSION DAY 1, FEBRUARY 16, 2033. 1310 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[BERING STRAIT, SOUTH-WEST OF LITTLE DIOMEDE ISLAND]

Price stared into a forest of coil-gun muzzles. At the squad of Bzadian soldiers, eyes steady behind the sights of those guns, despite the howling, buffeting wind. They had approached from the rear of the hillock, out of sight, any sounds they made lost in the noise of the wind. The ice cave that was the Angel’s shelter had become a trap. For a brief instant, Price thought of resisting. They could go for their guns, put up a fight, maybe have a chance. Part of her wanted the fight, but another part of her brain said: no. They were outnumbered, and the enemy soldiers already had the drop on them. It would be slaughter, even if they did manage to take some of the Bzadians with them.

She flicked her com onto a Bzadian frequency. “Who are you?” she asked in Bzadian. There was no response. She tried two other frequencies, with no more success. Slowly, she raised her hands to the back of her neck, the Bzadian sign of surrender.

One by one, the enemy soldiers stripped them of their weapons and motioned them to move.

They didn’t have to go far. It was a short walk between a few of the odd rounded hillocks to one that looked like all the others, except for the low tunnel dug into the side of it.

Three of the Bzadians dropped to their knees and crawled into the tunnel, while the rest kept their guns close to the Angels’ backs. One of the Bzadians, whose uniform markings indicated a squad leader, pointed at Price then pointed to the tunnel.

After a brief hesitation, Price dropped to her hands and knees and led the Angels in, shuffling along the ice and through the narrow opening. For now they had to seem cooperative. They had to act like Bzadians, just as they had at Uluru.

The hillock was not a mound of snow or ice. To her shock, Price found herself climbing up through a hatch into the main cabin of a Bzadian battle tank. A circular cabin, gleaming metal, spartan and functional.

A row of fold-down seats – transportation seats for infantry – lined the outer wall and, without speaking, their captors indicated that they should sit and take off their helmets.

“What’s going on?” Price asked as soon as her helmet was off, with as much indignation as she could fake. Still there was silence from the Bzadians.

The Bzadian squad leader removed his helmet and tucked it under one arm. He was thin, with a hooked nose. He walked along the row of Angels, examining them. Price waited. Best to let him make the first move. She looked around, gauging her surroundings. Searching for opportunities to escape.

There were no exits except for the hatch in the floor, although there was a small rounded door in one wall. It was slightly ajar. Inside was a bathroom with a Bzadian-style toilet and a showerhead in the ceiling. All the comforts of home. The Bzadian crews lived in the tank when going into combat. Sleeping, bathing, toileting: all without having to leave the vehicle. So where were they? The tank was empty except for the squad leader and the three soldiers who had preceded them inside.

It was warm in the tank. There was a faintly artificial smell, as if the air had been processed and filtered, which was probably true. It would be scrubbed of carbon dioxide and recirculated to avoid pumping the warm air outside, where it could be picked up by thermal detectors. As the shock of the capture started to wear off, other questions arose in Price’s mind. How could a tank be here, so close to the supposedly highly sensitive sensors of Little Diomede? How many other tanks were there? Price tried to guess at the number of mounds they had seen, and couldn’t.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” the squad leader asked finally, addressing Price.

“I am Priaz,” Price said, with even more indignation. “We are scouts from second regiment, first infantry division. Why have you detained us?”

The squad leader waved his hands in front of his face, a token apology. But still, a good sign, Price thought.

“I am Zim,” he said. “We were told that second regiment is still at Chukchi.”

“Your information is wrong,” Price said. “Battle plans have changed. Were you not informed?”

“How could I be informed with the strict radio silence?” Zim asked, but he appeared somewhat satisfied with her answer. “What are you doing in our sector?”

“We did not know we were in your sector,” Price said, thinking quickly. “We were patrolling our own sector and were caught in the blizzard. We had to deviate around a huge fissure in the ice. My team were almost at the end of their endurance, so we were taking shelter, gathering our strength. That was when you found us.”

The Angels did their best to act like soldiers who had been tabbing through an icefield for hours and were almost at the end of their tether. It wasn’t difficult.

“Check our ID tubes,” Price said, pulling hers off her shoulder. Zim took it and collected those of the other Angels, handing them to one of the soldiers who went to verify them at the main control panel.

“And this radio equipment?” Zim asked. “And the sled you were pulling? It looks human to me.”

Their com set was sitting on the floor of the tank in a pool of water from the melting ice.

Price glanced around at the other Angels as she carefully formulated her next words. “I agree. It looks human. We found the sled and the radio in the lee of a ridge, not far from here. For all we know, it may be broadcasting your location to the scumbugz.”

One of the soldiers was examining the unit. “Perhaps from the human infiltrators we intercepted yesterday,” he said.

Price avoided any expression. The “human infiltrators” could only be one of the Seal teams.

“We captured their equipment with them,” Zim said.

“And you didn’t think to search for spares?” Price asked. “Or other teams?”

Zim shrugged. The soldier with the ID tubes returned them to Zim and nodded.

The guns that had been trained on them were lowered, then holstered.

Price casually glanced at Monster and The Tsar. Not all of the Bzadian squad had followed them into the tank. Some had remained outside, probably guarding the area. There were six Angels and just four Bzadians. If her team could overpower the Bzadians before they drew their weapons again, the Angels should be able to take control of the situation.

“So what now?” Price asked conversationally. “How do we get back to our unit?”

“I am not sure,” Zim said. “I don’t know how you got here, but you shouldn’t be in this area. My commander is on his way and he will sort it out.”

“Good,” Price said. “The sooner the better.”

The Tsar stretched his arms then his legs. Wall shifted forwards slightly on his seat.

“May I use your bathroom?” Price asked. “We have been in these suits for hours.”

Zim looked carefully at her before replying. “Of course,” he said.

“Wilton?” It was a male voice this time and it had lost the artificial, robotic quality. And it did sound like Chisnall.

“Who is this really?” Wilton asked.

He was sitting in the central courtyard of the Pentagon. A grassy, tree-covered park with five paths converging on a central fountain that, for some reason, was known as the Hot Dog Stand. It was a tall cascading water feature topped by a statue of an owl. The sound of the water blanketed out other sounds, which was why he had picked this place. For all he knew his office was bugged.

The weather was cold enough to drive everyone else indoors, which also made this a great place for a private conversation.

“It’s Ryan,” the voice said.

“Uh-uh, no way,” Wilton said. “I saw you go over the dam.”

“In the desert, on the way to Uluru,” the voice said, “someone asked you if you were religious, do you remember?”

“What did I say?” Wilton asked.

“That when you were young you prayed every night for God to make you a Christian, but he never did.”

“Ryan?” Wilton asked. Nobody could know that except the other five original Angels. Two of those were in the Bering Strait. One was in prison. The other was killed in the Australian desert. That left only Ryan Chisnall.

“How have you been, Blake?” Chisnall asked.

“Good,” Wilton said. “How about you?”

“I’m okay,” Chisnall said.

“Where are you?” Wilton asked.

“Australia, but you can tell no one,” Chisnall said. “The Bzadians have spies in ACOG and it is vital that no one knows I’m alive.”

“What about Price and Monster?”

“You can tell Price and Monster, and Barnard and The Tsar,” Chisnall said. “But make it clear to them how important it is to keep it to themselves. My life depends on it.”

“Okay, I will,” Wilton said.

“Where are the Angels?”

“They’re … um,” Wilton broke off, coughing to clear a sudden choking in his throat. His eyes were full of tears.

“Are you crying, Blake?” Chisnall asked.

“Yeah, whatever,” Wilton said, wiping his eyes. “Over you? Barely noticed you were gone.”

“So where are the Angels?” Chisnall asked.

“They’re not here right now,” Wilton said.

“On a mission?” Chisnall asked.

“I can’t say,” Wilton said.

“Fair enough,” Chisnall said. “Listen carefully, I don’t have much time. I am working with a group of Bzadians who are opposed to the war. I won’t go into the details at the moment.”

“Seriously?” Wilton asked. “There are Pukes against the war?”

“Seriously. But I need some help. I need to contact Barnard. I can’t say why. I tried to get her at Fort Carson, but they wouldn’t put me through. Nor to Price or Monster.”