Vengeance (2 page)

Somewhere behind them, the stealth boat that had carried them almost within sight of the Australian coast was now cruising quietly back to its secretive New Zealand base.

Price glanced at the time on her wrist computer. It was not yet 0200 hours. So far they were on track. By 0900 hours, no later, they had to be in Canberra, the beating heart of the Bzadian Empire. They had a package to deliver, and timing on this mission was critical. Perhaps more than on any of their other missions.

The yacht straightened for a second or two as it tacked, then settled back onto a steep, uncomfortable angle. Price had been sitting on the low side of the boat, her back against the railings, but now she was on the high side and had to put an arm over the top rail to stop from slipping off the seat. Her leg itched. The new one, cloned from her own cells by human doctors using Bzadian technology. Supposedly, it was identical to the one she had lost on the Wivenhoe dam, and yet it wasn’t. When she got cold, the leg itched. The doctors said it was all in her mind, and they were probably right, but knowing that didn’t help.

Angel Three, Specialist Retha Barnard and Angel Five, Specialist Hayden Wall, were on the ropes (“sheets” Price remembered her father calling them). Angel Four, Specialist Dimitri “The Tsar” Nikolaevna, was monitoring the scope, checking for alien activity in their vicinity, in the sky or on the water.

So far the only contacts had been three alien aircraft and a drifting, derelict ship.

The aircraft had appeared on the scope a few minutes earlier. They were flying in a group, typical of a coastal air patrol, and so far had shown no sign that they had detected the yacht. The ship was also Bzadian, one of a number that had been attacked by ACOG stealth fighter-bombers the previous day. This tough old trooper had refused to sink and its engines had refused to quit. Satellites had showed it chugging its way in a huge circle that took it halfway to New Zealand and back.

Everything was going according to plan. Price closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the boat as it rose and surged against the waves, feeling useless, but not really minding.

It brought back memories. No, not exactly memories, more like vague feelings from those early days of her life. Before it had all changed. Perhaps because of that, this didn’t feel like a mission. It felt like a holiday. That feeling wouldn’t last for long, but for now there was a moment to be enjoyed.

The sail flapped a few times, making a hard, cracking sound.

“Wall, make tighten your rope,” Monster called.

“Your sheet,” Price murmured, looking over at Monster. He stood at the rear of the yacht, feet planted firmly on the deck, his broad shoulders swaying slightly with the movement of the boat. He adjusted the wheel in small amounts, letting the vessel feel its way through the light troughs and swells. He was a rock. Solid; reliable; immovable. Nothing fazed him. He was the crutch that their former lieutenant, Ryan Chisnall, had always leaned on. And so had she.

“Not sheet, rope,” Monster said.

“On a sailboat, the ropes are called sheets,” Price said, and added pointedly, “in English.”

“Whatever is English called, make for tight,” Monster said.

The flapping eased and the sound stopped.

Price could never understand how the native Hungarian could be so fluent in all the major alien dialects, but still couldn’t speak English worth a damn.

“I gather Monster’s not the only one who has done a bit of sailing,” The Tsar said, not taking his eyes off the scope. His face reflected the greenish glow of the screen.

“Maybe a bit,” Price said.

Now The Tsar looked over at her, raising an eyebrow. She smiled with the warmth of the memory. “My dad loved sailing,” she said. “He took me out sometimes. When I was little.”

“And then?” The Tsar asked.

She shrugged. “Then he died, and mum’s boyfriend didn’t like sailing. He sold the boat.”

And used the money for gambling and booze
, she didn’t say. But it was true. And that holiday feeling had suddenly disappeared.

The sails rustled in an indecisive breeze, then filled again with air. The bow of the yacht lifted and chill sea spray stung her hand. She didn’t mind. After the hell of the Bering Strait midwinter, she would never complain about the cold again.

The spray brought with it the smell of the night ocean: a deep, cleansing smell. Millions of years ago, scientists said, the distant ancestors of the human race had crawled out of the ocean. Maybe that was why humans always felt drawn to it, she thought.

The next puff of breeze brought with it a different smell, the smell of land. Price wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she did. There was a subtle difference between the clean, fresh smell of the night sea air and the musk of nearby land.

The ocean spray was in her nostrils and in her mouth, a slight saltiness. The unadulterated taste of nature. But more than that: it was the taste of freedom.

That thought made her look at the door to the cabin. Freedom meant different things to different people, Price thought, and some people would never be free.

The ship showed up on Zane’s scope well before they crossed the coastline, which was an erratic white line three thousand metres below.

It was a perfect night. Earth’s sky was virtually cloudless and starlight scattered a soft texture across the clear plexiglass roof of the cockpit. Occasionally, he glanced up. One of those stars was home and, although he had never seen it, he still felt an attachment, a kind of magnetism, drawing him towards it. He knew that many other Bzadians felt the same, but that was wasted energy. Their lives were here now. It had been a one-way trip.

The cool night air was smooth, with not a trace of turbulence. It was like gliding on ice.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Zane was aware of the narrow angular shape of Nikoz’s fighter to his left and Shelz’ah’s to his right. All three planes were Razers, the smallest and fastest craft in the Bzadian air fleet. The fastest fighter jets on this planet.

“There it is.” Nikoz’s voice sounded intrigued, not concerned by the blip that had appeared on the 3D radar scope.

Long range coastal radar had initially picked up the ship, sailing where no ship was supposed to be, and Zane’s group had been diverted from their regular patrol to investigate.

“I see it,” Zane said.

“If that’s an enemy ship, they’re either very brave or very stupid,” Nikoz said.

“That’s not human. That’s one of ours.”

The voice came from Shelz’ah, the newest member of his patrol team. She was young and inexperienced but her skills with the Razer were quite extraordinary. She had just returned from Chukchi where she had earned the Bzadian Sash, the air force’s third highest honour, during the abortive crossing of the Bering Strait.

“You’re sure?” Zane asked.

“It’s QW-73. One of our coastal patrol boats,” Shelz’ah said. “The profile fits exactly. It was reported sunk yesterday.”

“Doesn’t look very sunk to me,” Nikoz said.

“It’s moving south,” Zane said. “Alter course to zero four seven, descend to two thousand metres.”

The three Razers, as if a single craft, banked slightly as they swivelled onto the new heading. They were travelling at about thirteen hundred kilometres per hour, to conserve fuel, just above the speed of sound.

Sharp thunder, far distant, like the cracking of a whip, made Price turn her head, although there was nothing to be seen, not even stars. The expanse of the sail, black against the night sky, blocked everything in that direction.

Even so, she couldn’t stop herself looking. The sound brought her back to reality. This was not a pleasure cruise. This was war, and they were about to sail into the middle of it.

“What have you got, Tsar?” she asked.

“Those three fast movers,” The Tsar said, focused intently on the scope. “Still heading away from us though. For now.”

“Good,” Price said. “Let’s hope they stay that way.”

“And if they don’t?” Wall asked.

“Then they’re in for a nasty surprise,” Price said. She automatically looked to the east where their guardian angels – a wing of ACOG’s brand-new scream jets – were circling just over the horizon.

Monster saw her glance at the sky. “Why they call scream jets?” he asked. “Make noise like bang, not like scream.” He imitated the sound of the planes. “Bang, bang, bang.”

“Because Pukes are gonna scream when they hear ’em coming,” The Tsar said.

“It’s the sound the engine makes as the plane approaches ignition speed,” Barnard said.

Wall laughed. “I like The Tsar’s answer better.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Barnard said.

“And the Pukes don’t have anything that fast?” Wall asked.

“Not even close,” Barnard said.

“Unless they can come up with a way of countering the screamers, the air war is about to turn in our favour,” Price said. “And who controls the air, controls the battlefield.”

There was silence from her team as the implications of that began to sink in. For the first time in over a decade, there was a possibility of not just surviving, but of actually winning the war. It would be too late though for Emile. And Hunter. And Wilton.

Price turned her face away from the breeze. The cool sea air was making her eyes water.

The Tsar handed the scope to Wall and came to sit by Price. He put his arm around her shoulders.

She turned and stared at him until he took his arm away.

“You looked cold, Big Dog,” he said.

“I’m your commanding officer,” Price said. “You salute me; you don’t hug me.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” The Tsar said, saluting comically.

“Monster’s the captain,” Price said.

She reached over and put his arm back around her shoulders. She
was
cold. She moved slightly, nestling her back into him.

“What’s going on over there?” Monster called out from the back of the boat. “Hands off my girl.”

“I was cold,” Price called back, smiling. “And I didn’t know The Tsar was your girlfriend.”

The Tsar moved his arm around her neck and pretended to strangle her. She laughed and struggled, pushing his arm back. Monster laughed too.

“Anyway,” Price said. “At least I’m not lying naked in a bed with an Inupiat woman.”

Monster stopped laughing abruptly and she felt The Tsar draw away a little.

“Bit harsh,” Wall said.

Price regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. In the wilds of the Bering Strait, a native Inupiat woman, Corazon, had saved Monster’s life by bringing up his body temperature when he had hypothermia. But Corazon’s husband, Nukilik, had died helping the Angels, and thinking of her brought back memories of him.

The silence stretched interminably. It was The Tsar who finally broke it. “Did I ever tell you my story about the mayor’s wife?” he asked.

“No,” Price said, trying not to sound too grateful for the diversion.

“Do we really want to hear this?” Barnard asked.

The Tsar ignored her. “Okay, first you have to understand that my parents were quite well off.”

“So you were a spoiled rich kid,” Barnard said. “That explains a lot.”

“Bite me,” The Tsar said.

“I have too much respect for my tastebuds,” Barnard said.

“Was your father in the Russian mafia?” Wall asked.

“Nah, manufacturing,” The Tsar said. “Nothing exciting.”

“Manufacturing, yeah right,” Wall said. “That’s like those American mobsters saying they’re in the waste disposal business.”

“Anyway, you know how some people have deodorising spray in their toilets?” The Tsar said. “We had perfume.”

“Perfume?” Price asked, twisting around to look at him.

“Yep. Expensive stuff, hundreds of dollars a bottle. Big names, like Chanel and Givenchy, stuff like that.”

“Nice for some,” Barnard said.

The Tsar laughed loudly and abruptly. “So one day when I was young we went out for dinner to a fancy restaurant. This man walked in with his wife. He was the local mayor. She was this elegant lady in a long flowing gown, manicured everything, diamond earrings and pearls up to here. My dad knew him, so they came over to say hello. And the wife was being all cute and smiling at me and saying how adorable I was and I turned to my mum and said, ‘that lady smells just like our toilet.’”