4. TANK

[MISSION DAY 1, FEBRUARY 16, 2033]

[1310 hours local time]

[Southwest of Little Diomede Island, Bering Strait]

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 Angels’ 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 a slaughter, even if they did manage to take some of the Bzadians with them.

She flicked her comm 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 appeared 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 at the Angels’ backs. One of the Bzadians, whose uniform markings indicated a squad leader, pointed at Price, then pointed to the tunnel.

After a little hesitation, Price dropped to her hands and knees and led the Angels in, shuffling along the ice 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. How many other tanks were there? Price tried to guess at the number of mounds they had seen, and couldn’t.

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 remove 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 all of 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 from the cabin except for the hatch in the floor, although on one side was a small rounded door. 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 three soldiers who had preceded them inside.

It was warm. 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 raised themselves in Price’s mind. How could a tank be here, so close to the supposedly highly sensitive sensors of Little Diomede?

“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 the 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 was 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 ice field 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 from the other Angels, handing them to one of the soldiers who went to verify them in a tube-reader at the main control panel.

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

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

Price glanced around at the other Angels as she carefully formulated what she would say next. “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 carefully 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, 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 just five Bzadians and six Angels. 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 casually, 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.”

Down the row from her, the Tsar stretched his arms, then his legs. Wall shifted forward 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.

[1720 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[Office FC7001, Third Level, West Quarter, Pentagon, Virginia]

“Wilton?” It was a male voice this time, without 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 one of the five other 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 am 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, and he wasn’t really sure why.

“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.”

“They wouldn’t be able to,” Wilton said.

“So I asked for you, and they said you didn’t work there anymore,” Chisnall said.

“Yeah, they kicked me out,” Wilton said. “I was too good-looking. Never liked the place much anyway.”

Chisnall laughed. “Kept growing, did you?”

“Just a little,” Wilton said.

“What are you doing now?” Chisnall asked.

“Gunner on a fast-attack hovercraft,” Wilton said.

“Sounds cool,” Chisnall said.

“It is,” Wilton said. “Much more fun than tabbing around the desert with a bunch of whiny Angels.”

“Okay, so how do I get hold of Barnard?” Chisnall asked.

“I should be able to relay a message,” Wilton said.

“No, I need to talk to her directly,” Chisnall said.

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Wilton said.

“Okay, thanks,” Chisnall said. “Give her this number and get her to call me.”

There was a short silence on the line and Wilton thought Chisnall had gone. That made his heart race. It was as if by hanging up the phone, he would discover that this was all part of a dream, just a figment of his imagination. That Chisnall was not really alive.

“Hey, Chisnall,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“These Pukes that you’re working with, would they be willing to help us?” Wilton asked.

“Maybe. Depends what it is,” Chisnall said.

Wilton hesitated, wondering if he was giving too much away. He didn’t know who else might be listening at Chisnall’s end.

“You said there are spies in ACOG. What did you mean?” he asked. “Are they traitors? Like Brogan?”

“You mean from Uluru?” Chisnall asked.

“Yeah, like from Uluru, or whatever,” Wilton said.

“I don’t know,” Chisnall said.

“Can you ask someone?” Wilton asked.

“The people I am working with wouldn’t know,” Chisnall said. “Uluru was top secret. Most Bzadians don’t even know the program existed.”

“Shame,” Wilton said. “I don’t know who to trust nowadays.”

“Trust no one,” Chisnall said.

“There are some soldiers,” Wilton said, “who…I mean…It could be super important. For Price and the others.”

There was a silence at the other end and again Wilton thought the connection had been broken.

“These soldiers, do you have access to their personnel files?”

“I can try to get it,” Wilton said.

“Dig around in their history, see if everything adds up. Or…” Chisnall’s voice trailed off.

“Or what?”

“You could show their photos to Brogan. See if she recognizes them. If they are from Uluru, then she just might.”

“You think she’d help?”

“Maybe not. But show her the photos anyway. Watch her reaction.”

“I’ll try that,” Wilton said.

“I gotta go,” Chisnall said. “Get Barnard to call me as soon as possible.”

“Solid copy,” Wilton said.

“Hey, Wilton.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s been good to hear your voice.”

“You too, Ryan.”

When he hung up the phone, Wilton found his eyes watering up again. He had lived with the certainty of Chisnall’s death for over a year. The truth was almost too much to deal with.

The tears flowed freely. But they were good tears.

—

The shower nozzle unscrewed silently. It was a metal pipe with a ball-shaped showerhead on the end, which unscrewed as well, leaving Price with a heavy pipe about ten centimeters long. It fitted neatly into the sleeve of her tunic, when she unclipped the cuff. She hid the showerhead behind the spherical toilet bowl and closed the cover. The toilet made a whooshing sound.

She left her cuff loose and checked that the metal pipe would slip easily down into her hand when she wanted it to, then opened the door and stepped out into the main cabin of the tank. She should have been afraid. But she wasn’t. Mostly there was a strange exhilaration. A sense of imminent danger and action.

“My turn,” Monster said, standing and stepping toward her.

She let the pipe slip down just into her hand, so the end of it touched her palm. The Tsar and Barnard tensed, ever so slightly.

The Bzadian soldiers seemed unaware of the shift in posture of the Angels. Zim glanced at Monster, then turned back to the computer screen he was working on.

Price let the pipe slip lower, until the end of it was in her hand, hiding it behind her leg.

“Stop what you are doing!”

The voice came from the center of the cabin, from the hatch. Price turned to see a Bzadian, in a colonel’s uniform, climbing up through the hatchway.

That changed the odds, but not much. She took a firm grip of the end of the pipe.

“Sit down!” the colonel said. The gun in his hand changed the odds a lot more. It was aimed directly between her eyes.

All Price could see was the gun. Monster paused, halfway to the bathroom, watching her for a cue. She shook her head.

By now the other Bzadians had guns in their hands and any chance was gone.

Why hadn’t she been quicker?

“All of you, sit down,” the colonel ordered, indicating the infantry transport seats around the outer wall of the tank. Price eased the pipe back into her sleeve and, with a quick shake of her head at the others, went to sit down.

The colonel climbed up, followed by a very hard-faced soldier, a female, who towered at least a head above the others. An insignia on her breastplate marked her as one of the elite Vaza corps, bodyguards who protected senior Bzadian officers. Her jaw was wide and her nose was crooked, broken a few times and never set properly. That was a Bzadian badge of courage and toughness. If not for the shape of her armor, Price would have mistaken her for a male.

The colonel was less rough-hewn, almost effeminate in his features. He wore glasses, which was highly unusual for a Bzadian. He took off his helmet and put away his sidearm as he walked along in front of the Angels, stopping before Price. He removed his glasses, then sniffed the air a few times. There was a sense of indifference about him. A sense that he was wasting his valuable time dealing with such a trivial matter.

He replaced his glasses, and without warning, his right hand struck like a snake. He grabbed Price’s face, squeezing her cheeks together, forcing her to open her mouth as she struggled in the steely strength of his grip. He examined her tongue before releasing her.

“I am Colonel Nokz’z,” he said. He wiped his hand on his uniform with an expression of distaste. “You are the leader?”

“Yes, I am, and I demand to be returned to my unit immediately,” Price said. She added an extra buzz after the last word, the Bzadian way of showing annoyance.

“Your unit?” Nokz’z asked.

“Second regiment, first infantry division,” Price said.

“Why are they not in cuffs?” Nokz’z asked, with a glance at Zim.

The guns aimed at the Angels suddenly became a lot more steady, the focus of those holding them a lot more intense. The colonel’s bodyguard also unholstered her weapon and aimed it at Price.

“This is an outrage!” Price said. She tried to remember how Chisnall had managed to seem so convincing in the Australian desert.

“What is the need to cuff them?” Zim asked.

Nokz’z did not seem to hear either of them. “Secure these scumbugz.”

“Scumbugz?” Zim queried.

“Scumbugz,” Nokz’z said, still without addressing Price. “They are humans. I can smell them. They are the ones they call Angels.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Price said.

“Our intelligence said that the Angels were shut down,” Zim said.

“Let us find out,” Nokz’z said. He took a small electronic device from a pocket and held it in front of Price. A green flash illuminated her face.

He walked to a nearby computer and pressed buttons. Nothing happened at first; then up on the screen came a recognizable picture of Price running through one of the corridors at Uluru. It was taken from a security camera, so it was from above, but her face was clear.

He sniffed again and turned to Zim. “I told you I could smell them. This one was at Uluru.”

“Someone who looks like me,” Price tried, but it sounded desperate, even to her.

“Facial recognition algorithms cannot be so easily fooled,” Nokz’z said. He glanced at Zim. “Cuff them.”

The Bzadians first removed the battery packs that powered the Angels’ combat suits, and the spares. That was a clever move, Price thought. It trapped them in the tank as securely as if they were in an iron cage. Without the warmth of the powered thermal suits, they would quickly freeze to death outside.

The battery packs, along with their coil-guns, grenades, and other equipment, were placed in equipment lockers, next to the driver’s control panel, well out of reach.

Their helmets were taken and placed on high racks. Another lock on the door of the cage. They were going nowhere without helmets.

She was made to face the wall and, when she did, a gun was placed on the back of her head to ensure she didn’t resist. A flexible plastic collar was placed around her neck. On either side of the collar was a wrist loop.

The soldier who grasped her right arm stopped, unclipped her cuff, and extracted the shower pipe. He handed it to Zim.

“Whatever would you need that for?” Nokz’z asked.

Price didn’t answer.

Once her arms were secured by the wrist loops, Price was made to sit. The neckcuff was clipped to a bracket on the top of the seat back, at neck height. It was ruthless, simple, and startlingly effective. Any movement tightened the collar, choking her. Price found that she had to sit straight, as if at attention. Even slouching was enough to put pressure on the cuff and cut off her air supply.

Barnard was next to be cuffed, scowling at the two soldiers who did it.

Emile was last in line. With the curve in the wall of the tank, Price could see his face clearly. He was staring at her.

Price glanced around the cabin. Her eye fell on the equipment locker. Their guns and grenades were there, so close, but so far away. But if someone was quick…

She looked back at Emile, then flicked her eyes to the locker. Emile queried her with a raised eyebrow.

“Puke spray,” Price mouthed.

Emile nodded and glanced over at the locker.

Half of their grenades were explosive; the rest were Puke spray. Price had inadvertently invented those during Operation Magnum, when she had shot a hole in a can of the spray. The idea had since been developed into a standard weapon carried by all Special Forces teams.

If Emile could get to one of the Puke spray grenades and set it off inside the tank, it would immobilize the Bzadians on board, with little effect on the Angels if they held their breath.

Monster was looking at her, too, and shaking his head minutely. No, don’t risk it, was the clear message.

But they had to do something.

The Bzadians cuffed Wall and the Tsar and then moved to Monster.

Monster made them nervous. That was clear from how they kept a good distance from him and from the steady way the coil-gun was trained on him as one of the soldiers moved in closer to cuff him.

“Turn around,” Nokz’z said.

Monster turned to face the wall. The eyes of everyone in the tank were on him. All guns were on him.

Emile was still watching her. She flicked her eyes one more time to the lockers.

Two Bzadians grasped Monster’s arms and started to raise them toward the neckcuff. Monster offered no resistance.

“Dingo,” Price said. The team’s action word. Ever since Uluru.

There was a blur of movement and Emile leaped out of his seat.

The gun that had been covering Monster flicked toward Emile. Too late, the soldier realized that was a mistake. Monster twisted his wrists, latching on to the arms of his captors and pulling them into him even as he thrust himself backward, using them as a kind of shield, ramming them into the soldier behind. The Vaza, the colonel’s bodyguard, sensing that the real danger came from Monster, not Emile, was turning her weapon but could not get a clean shot. In a blur of movement, Emile raced around the inside of the tank, a miniature human tornado, pinballing off the walls.

Guns tried to track him and arms stretched out for him, but he was far too fast for them. He made it to the lockers and grabbed a grenade, reached for the pin, then clearly changed his mind with a quick shake of his head at Price. Already, guns were turning toward him, but he ducked under their aim, sliding across the floor to the hatch, and disappearing out of sight.

Why hadn’t he pulled the pin? Why had he just made a run for it? Why? It was the wrong grenade, Price decided. Half of the grenades in that locker were explosive ones. Emile had grabbed the wrong one. An explosive grenade in a confined area like this tank would kill everyone inside.

Monster was wrestling with two of the Bzadians, but it wasn’t a fair fight. Two on one. He tied them in knots and dumped them on top of the Vaza. The soldiers on the other side of the cabin were trying to get a clean shot at him and one of them took the chance. Monster was flung backward by the impact of the bullet but was quickly on his feet, deep cracks spreading across the armored plates of his combat suit. Another shot and he would be dead. The crash of the gunshot was still ringing in Price’s ears as, with an apologetic glance behind, Monster dived headfirst into the open hatch.

The Bzadians recovered quickly. Zim was down the hatch and in the tunnel.

The Vaza was about to follow him when she stopped at an order from Nokz’z.

“No,” Nokz’z said. “Stay here, Vaza. I would not want to lose you.”

“They will get away,” the Vaza said.

“Away to where?” Nokz’z asked. “They have no thermals and no helmets. They have no weapons apart from one grenade. Let them go. We might recover the bodies later.” He made a small shrug. “Or not.”