Task Force (13 page)

Even so, they remained a moment until the Bzadian female disappeared from the window.

“Whatever it takes, huh, Chisnall?” Barnard said.

Chisnall said nothing.

“That patrol has turned around,” the Tsar said. “Now heading west, coming this way.”

“Okay. We need to get out of sight,” Chisnall said.

“There’s a patch of trees up here on the right,” Wilton said. “Just past the bridge.”

“How long have we got, Tsar?” Chisnall asked.

“A couple of minutes,” the Tsar said.

The trees were on the bank of the river, below the bike path. To get to them they had to climb the low fence of the bike path and jump down to the ground. The trees were thick and leafy, providing ample protection from view.

The dog, however, stopped, right alongside their position, and began to bark at them through the railings of the fence.

“Somebody shut that dog up,” Chisnall said.

The dog was barking madly now, lunging against the railings.

“I’ll do it,” Price said.

“No, I do it,” Monster said. “She will listen to me.”

“Sixty seconds,” the Tsar said.

A low growling came from Monster’s throat and the dog stopped barking as it pondered this new development.

“Just as well he speaks its language,” Wilton said.

“They’re probably related,” Price said.

Monster reached up to the fence and hauled himself back up onto the bike path. The dog backed away as he approached, then started barking again, louder and louder.

“Thirty seconds,” the Tsar said.

“Shut that mutt up,” Chisnall said.

“Shhh,” Monster said. He advanced, and the dog retreated, jumping and growling. They moved out of sight.

“Shhh.” They heard Monster’s voice gently now on the comm. “Shhh.”

The dog barked again, then stopped.

“Shhh,” Monster said.

After that there was silence.

“How’d he do that?” Barnard asked.

Chisnall smiled. “He loves animals. He has a real way with them.”

“Patrol’s right on us,” the Tsar said, and they all heard the engine of the Land Rover as it passed along the highway on the other side of the trees. Almost as quickly, it was gone, the sound fading into the distance.

They waited for Monster, who appeared a moment later, not up on the bike path, but through the trees, from the bank of the river.

“Where’s the dog?” Chisnall asked.

“Gone,” Monster said. “Gone home. I think.”

There was something hard in his eyes.

“What did you do?” Chisnall asked quietly.

Barnard snorted. “What do you think he did?”

“Monster?” Chisnall asked.

Monster was silent, unmoving.

“He wouldn’t have hurt the dog,” Chisnall said. “Would you, Monster?”

“Of course not,” Monster said.

“Of course not,” Chisnall said. “Now let’s get out of here before the task force gets too far ahead of us.”

ON THE ROAD TO THE BRIDGE, KRIZ STOPPED AND STARED
at the river. Her NV goggles revealed a low, dense mist. Something seemed odd about the river. The restaurateur had mentioned boats on the phone, but she couldn’t see any, unless they were very low in the water.

Then it clicked. The
mist
was what was odd. There was often a mist on the surface of the river, but that was in winter, when cold air reacted with warmer water. In summer, a mist was unusual, if not impossible, she thought.

A slight movement of the mist revealed a flicker of a dark shadow. Or was that just her imagination, coloring in the outline that the restaurateur had given her?

Intrigued, and more than a little alarmed, she continued to walk toward the bridge. Despite the recent odd occurrences, she could not bring herself to believe this was some kind of enemy activity. The radar and sonar feeds from the SONRAD station were still fully operational. They would have picked up any enemy forces the moment they entered the bay, well before they got anywhere near the river. The power blackout, however, was a worrying coincidence. She checked the time as she took her first step onto the bridge so she could log it later. It was 01:40 hours.

“What you said about us starting the war, you really think that’s true?” Chisnall asked, off comm, coasting up alongside Barnard.

“Some people believe it,” Barnard said.

“And you?”

Barnard swerved away from him to avoid a cracked area of concrete that had risen up to form a small ridge.

“I’m open-minded.”

“Nice to know,” Chisnall said, letting a cold chill drop into his voice. “But you can keep it to yourself from now on. These guys don’t need to have doubts about why they’re putting their lives on the line here.”

“I don’t get you, Chisnall,” Barnard said. “I’m trying to figure you out and I’m failing.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just stay on task,” Chisnall said.

“I don’t care what people think of me,” Barnard said. “Price
ignores me. Wilton is terrified of me. I don’t care about the Tsar. He’s a jerk. And Monster doesn’t talk much anyway. But you? You’re a mystery to me.”

“How so?”

“Because these guys all look up to you like you’re some kind of god. But all I see is a scared little boy.”

“Ouch,” Chisnall said.

“What these guys need is a leader who’s not afraid to lead,” Barnard said.

“You don’t pull your punches, do you?” Chisnall said.

“I heard about Uluru,” Barnard said. “Get over it. Stop trying to protect these guys and start doing your job.”

“I am doing my job,” Chisnall said. “You keep your ideas to yourself. These guys don’t need to be wondering whose side you’re really on.”

She turned to face him and her eyes were stony. “I’m no traitor,” she said.

“Then what are you?” Chisnall asked. “The most important mission of the war and they landed me with you. No combat history, no explanations. I could have used another experienced soldier.”

“Like the Hero of Hokkaido?” Barnard said with a small twist of a smile.

“Yes, like the Tsar. But I got you,” Chisnall said. “Someone who knows things they’re not supposed to know. Who are you?”

“That’s not important,” Barnard said.

“I’ll decide that,” Chisnall said.

“It’s above your security level, Lieutenant,” Barnard said.

“I’m in command of this team,” Chisnall said. “Right here, right now, nothing is above my security level.”

“This is,” Barnard said.

Chisnall opened his mouth, but any further questions would have to wait. A Bzadian came running out of a side street, right at them.

“Help! Help!” He was not in uniform. He was a civilian, which, to a human, was a rare sight. The interactions humans had with Bzadians were mostly at the end of a gun.

“The river!” the civilian said.

He was overweight, also an unusual state for a Bzadian. His fingers were soft and pudgy and even the short run over to their position left him breathless. His hands waved around like windmills.

“What is it, sir?” Chisnall asked.

“There’s something in the river!” the Bzadian puffed.

“River monsters, perhaps?” Price asked.

“Boats!” the Bzadian said. “Small boats. I think they’re sc—” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. “The enemy!”

“Scumbugz?” Chisnall asked. “Here in the middle of New Bzadia? That’s not possible.”

“I know what I saw,” the fat Bzadian said.

“Have you alerted the Coastal Defense Command?” Chisnall asked.

“Yes.”

“All right, we’ll check it out,” Chisnall said. “But in the meantime I want you to let us know if you see anyone carrying cans of Puke spray.”

“Puke spray?” The Bzadian seemed even more alarmed.

“What is it?”

“Like this,” Chisnall said, and showed him.

Monster caught the Bzadian as he slumped, then effortlessly slung the flabby shape over one shoulder.

“Put him somewhere he won’t be found,” Chisnall said. He looked at the others. “I think we may have a problem.”

“Movement up ahead,” Wilton said.

Kris stopped about a quarter of the way across the bridge and leaned over the rail to peer down. Something was floating beneath the mist. Whatever it was, it was large, ripples spreading backward down the river as far as she could see. There was an unusual sound in the air also, a low murmur that seemed to be coming from the water.

She reached for her phone, but even as she did, a realization struck her. The restaurateur. Where was he? He had said he would meet her on the bridge. Had something happened to him? If so, was she in danger too? She glanced around the bridge, seeing nothing, then down at the bike path, which ran along the riverbank. A vague blur of movement caught her eye. She dropped just as a thud hit the rail above her. A mist of fine gray powder wafted downward. Instinctively, she shut her eyes and mouth and clamped two fingers over her nose, rolling out onto the roadway as another thud sounded.

Something was wrong with her vision now—the images in the NV goggles were swimming, and when she tried to stand
up, her legs were weak and loose. Dark figures were scrambling over median barriers onto the bridge on-ramp. She tried to focus on them but her eyes were a blur.

On her hands and knees, she scurried away from them—away from her command center and safety.

Her command center. In the fog of her brain, she remembered her phone.

She peered at the buttons, but they were just blurs. Kriz forced her eyes to focus and pressed the speed-dial button. A voice answered. It was someone she knew well, although she could not remember his name. She tried to talk through thick lips but her tongue was a swollen, useless lump of meat and only groaning sounds emerged.

Now there were dark figures running up the bridge toward her. There was no time. Somehow, she got to her feet and staggered to the railing of the bridge, leaning over, and over. The mist below her looked like a soft cushion for her fall, but that was an illusion. The truth was the cold hardness of the river water.

The shock gave Kriz clarity. Her eyes began to focus; her tongue began to stir. But the phone was gone, knocked from her grasp by the impact. Her NV goggles had somehow remained in place and the river was a dark green otherworld.

The current dragged her downstream, and she began to flail back to the surface, desperate for a gasp of air. She watched in astonishment as a giant black fish swam toward her … no, not a fish, a tank. A human battle tank, floating beneath the surface, its huge treads idle yet terrifying as they passed inches from her face.

Tanks, floating in the river! Kriz had no time to comprehend the meaning of this discovery as she reached the surface and gasped in a lungful of air, then another. Vaguely, through the mist, she could make out the bridge. Figures were bending over the railing. They must have seen her too. Guns swung in her direction. She plunged back below the surface as bullets disintegrated in the water around her.

“Where the hell is he?” Chisnall yelled.

“Can’t see him in the mist!” Price yelled back.

“Anyone got eyes on?” Chisnall asked. No one replied. “Well, keep looking.”

“Maybe he’s unconscious,” the Tsar said. “Wilton’s shot was right by his face.”

“No such luck,” Price said. “You don’t breathe in puffer dust and keep walking.”

“Maybe he fell off the bridge,” the Tsar said.

“No, he definitely climbed over the railing,” Wilton said.

“Find him,” Chisnall said.

Before he raises the alarm. Before he puts the entire mission in jeopardy
.

Deep in the river, another vehicle was approaching: a troop carrier with large bulbous wheels. Only the tops of the vehicles were above the water, Kriz realized. The rest was hidden from Bzadian eyes beneath the surface of the river.

Her mind was finally clear, freed from the effects of the few grains of the powder she had ingested. This was an invasion. No question about it, and the scale of it she could only guess at. What mattered now was raising the alarm.

She swam underwater for a few yards and then surfaced for another breath, ducking back down before the watching shooters could see her through the mist. Another vehicle loomed through the water, and, with a purpose born of desperation, she swam for it, scrabbling for a handhold. A series of rungs ran up the side and she grabbed at one, her hand slipping, then fastening firmly. The rung yanked at her arm, dragging her along with the vehicle as it made its way upriver. She clutched at a higher rung, then another, hauling herself up until her face emerged from the water. Here, right above one of the vehicles, the mist was thickest.

The shadow of the bridge passed overhead and still she held on, waiting for the pylons of the next bridge, the railway bridge.

When the sky darkened for a second time, she let go of the rung and swam to the nearest pylon. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the rough concrete of the pylon as she worked her way around, still underwater, emerging on the upriver side, out of sight of her pursuers. A few deep breaths and she dived back under, kicking for the next pylon. From the second pylon to the riverbank was a short swim, and she emerged in a clump of bushes below the bridge.

Kriz rested while she tried to get her breath and her bearings. She tried to think but lucid thoughts were like ghosts in the night, slipping away as she tried to latch on to them.
Only slowly did reason start to return. When it did, there was a problem.

She was on the wrong bank. Disorientated in the water, she had ended up on the far side away from her command center.

“There he is!” Barnard shouted. “By the base of the railway bridge.”

The others raced over and stared down at the tiny figure on the far side of the river, clambering out of the water.

“He swam upstream against the current!” Chisnall said.

“Or hitched a ride,” Barnard said. “That’s what I would have done.”

Chisnall glanced sideways at Barnard. The rest of them had been scanning the river downstream, waiting for the Bzadian to emerge from the water. Only Barnard had crossed the bridge to look upstream.