Ice War, page 10
The old man who had led the funeral rituals was seated at the head of the room. Nukilik introduced him as his father and the umialik. His name, apparently, was Old Joe. Monster wondered if he had ever been known as Young Joe. If he had, it was a long time ago.
The others introduced themselves in turn. A man named Big Billy was huge, especially for an Inupiat. His face was grizzled and scarred. He didn’t speak, and Monster was surprised to learn that this was Nukilik’s brother. They looked nothing alike.
There was a lot of staring and whispered discussions, and Monster realised that his Bzadian appearance was causing some consternation among the group.
After a brief discussion in their native language, Old Joe addressed Monster. “Welcome to our village,” he said.
“You have saved my life, and honoured the life of my friend,” Monster said. “I am humbled to be guest.”
“My son assures me that you are human,” Old Joe said. “Nevertheless, it gives my heart pause to see the face of a demon here inside our qargi.”
“It is not demons that we fight,” Monster said. “The Bzadians are aliens, from a faraway planet.”
Old Joe’s nose wrinkled in disagreement.
“They are creatures of blood and flesh,” Monster said.
“I know you believe this,” Old Joe said. “As we have our beliefs.”
“Is not belief,” Monster said. “Is fact. They are alien.”
Old Joe smiled. “You think we are simple people, because we live simply,” he said. There was silence in the room except for the sound of the wind rushing overhead.
“I mean no disrespect,” Monster said, when the silence continued.
“Yet the stench of it fills the room,” Big Billy spoke for the first time. His voice was low, like the grinding of gravel beneath the ice. A chorus of murmurs supported him.
Old Joe held up a hand for silence. “Young man, you think you know us, from what your eyes tell you. But your eyes do not tell you what they cannot see. We live here through choice. All of us have lived in the cities of the naluaqmiut.”
“Naluaqmiut?” Monster asked.
“It is a word for people who are not of the Inupiat,” Nukilik said.
“We know about central heating and cable television and high-rise buildings and frozen microwave dinners,” Old Joe said. “Yet we chose to return here, following the ways of our ancestors, living in sod huts, eating only what we hunt and catch. We have lived in your world. We understand it, and we reject it. You should take care before you dismiss ours.”
“I apologise for any disrespect,” Monster said. “And you are right. What I know is what I believe, and what I believe is that the enemy are aliens.”
Old Joe’s nose wrinkled again. “That is merely the form the demons have taken,” he said. “They are pretenders, ancient evil ones. They come to punish the naluaqmiut for losing their way.”
Around the room eyebrows were raised in agreement.
Monster thought carefully about what to say next. The extended silence seemed natural to the Inupiat and they did not attempt to fill it with words.
“We agree in more ways than we differ,” Monster said finally. “I believe universe it is strange and complex, with forces interacting in the ways we cannot to understand. Also, I believe that our actions have consequences, as though we are punished by the universe for our actions. Wherever they are from, perhaps arrival of Bzadians was message from the universe, warning for our carelessness. For greed and selfishness.”
Now he had raised eyebrows and widened eyes around the room.
“Perhaps we are supposed to learn from this,” Monster said. “But we cannot learn if we are gone. There are no lessons for the dead.”
Old Joe widened his eyes in agreement. “You are very young,” he said. “But you are wiser than most naluaqmiut. What is it that you ask of us?”
Monster was certain that Old Joe already knew what he wanted, as did everyone else in the room. But still they needed him to ask formally. Perhaps that too was part of their custom.
“The enemy – demon or alien, it make no difference – is ready to invade Americas,” Monster said. “Are waiting just a few kilometres from here. Our commanders know they are there. They will send the planes and missiles to smash this fleet. But I have friends, captured by the enemy, who will be killed.”
Big Billy spoke next. He spoke animatedly and angrily in his native language. When he had finished there was another silence.
“My brother asks why we should help you,” Nukilik said. “He says we helped in the Great Ice War and our reward was to be thrown off our island.”
“Thrown off?” Monster asked.
Nukilik nodded. “When the war was over we were forced to leave.”
“Yet you are here still,” Monster said.
“The pull of the island is strong,” Old Joe said.
“Does anyone know you are here?” Monster asked.
“The eyes on Little Diomede must surely see us, but so far they have done nothing,” Nukilik said.
“Perhaps now it suits them to have us here,” Big Billy growled.
Another long silence followed. Monster looked around the impassive faces of the Inupiat. He took a deep breath.
“I do not speak for ACOG. Not for any other person except myself, and the spirit of my dead friend,” Monster said. “You have been wronged by our leaders. I understand if you choose not for helping. But not far from here, my brothers and sisters face death, or worse. I will help them even if it means my death.”
“And this is what you are asking?” Old Joe asked.
“This is what I am asking,” Monster said.
Old Joe said nothing. Monster wondered if there was some truth to the Inupiat beliefs, if somehow their spirits were communicating on some higher plane.
Old Joe sat still, silent for a long time. Monster knew not to break it. Eventually, Old Joe turned to look at Monster. He did not speak, but his eyebrows slowly rose.
One of the Bzadian soldiers moved to the lockers, unlocked it and withdrew the Angel’s helmets and batteries for their thermal suits. They were getting ready to leave.
“Hold your breath,” The Tsar said. “I’m gonna fart, and it’s gonna be a doozy.”
“What are you talking …” Price’s voice trailed off as The Tsar lifted one foot slightly, revealing the rounded metal shape of a puke spray grenade. Price stared at it in amazement. How had he got hold of that? She looked away quickly, not wanting the Bzadians to notice. Out of the corner of her eye she saw The Tsar use the heel of his boot to work the pin out of the grenade.
Two of the Bzadian soldiers unholstered their side-arms and covered Price while another unlocked her neck-cuff. Behind them Zim was ready with her battery and helmet.
All attention was on her, but that changed in an instant at the sound of the grenade rolling across the floor. There was a small explosion and a whooshing sound and the cabin filled with a white mist that smelled vaguely of peppermint. The only other sounds were those of the Bzadian soldiers slumping to the floor.
Price had taken a deep breath and held it tightly, screwing her eyes shut. Her last experience of puke spray had not been a pleasant one. She scrabbled around on the floor for her helmet, finding it half-trapped beneath a body. She freed it, and jammed it down over her head. She locked it into place, hearing the hiss as the self-contained oxygen system pressurised. Still, she waited for the air inside the suit to clear before taking a breath and opening her eyes.
Already, the air was clearing as the tank’s own air filters removed the puke spray, but Barnard and the Tsar still had their eyes and mouths tightly shut.
She ran to the far side of the tank and snatched up the other helmets, fitting Barnard’s, then The Tsar’s. She found the key to the neck-cuffs, still in the hand of one of the Bzadians, and freed the other Angels.
She tossed a battery pack to each of the others before slotting her own into place on her hip, feeling the thermal suit come to life around her. She retrieved her gun, attaching it to the holster on her back.
“Good work, Tsar,” she said.
“Where the hell did you magic up that grenade?” Barnard asked.
“Wall gave it to me,” The Tsar said.
Price stopped what she was doing and stared at him. “Wall gave it to you?”
“When we were fighting,” The Tsar said.
“That makes no sense,” Price said. “He’s on their side.”
“Or is he?” The Tsar asked.
“Unless they want us to escape,” Barnard said.
“That makes no sense either,” Price said. “Why would they want us to escape?”
“I don’t know and right now I don’t care. Let’s just power this thing up and get the heck out of here,” The Tsar said, looking at the tank controls.
The Bzadian soldiers, who lay in various uncomfortable poses on the floor, stared at him but couldn’t move any other muscles.
“No,” Barnard said. “Bad idea.”
“We have one tank,” Price said. “They have hundreds; they’ll blow us off the ice.”
“Well, at least we’ll take a few of them with us,” The Tsar said. “And when ACOG sees a tank battle, they’ll surely know that something ain’t quite right down here.”
“Very noble of you,” Barnard said. “We die to send a message to ACOG.”
“No,” Price said. “Nobody else dies today.”
“Except Pukes,” The Tsar said.
“Anyway, we couldn’t even shoot back,” Barnard said. “This isn’t a tank.”
“What do you mean?” Price asked.
“It took me a while to realise,” Barnard said, “because they are very similar, but this is a SAM battery. They travel with tanks, but they are surface-to-air defence only.”
“So we can’t shoot back at all?” The Tsar asked.
“Not unless they attack us with planes,” Barnard said.
“We could still make a run for it,” The Tsar said.
“We would have a better chance if we got out,” Price said. “Try to escape across the icefloes on foot.”
“And how are we going to let ACOG know about the invasion force?” The Tsar asked. “Isn’t that the whole point?”
“If we rig up some explosives on the gun platform, we could blow this thing sky-high,” Barnard said. “We might be able to use the explosion as a distraction to help us get away. And it should be a pretty spectacular bang. That’ll get ACOG’s attention.”
“I like it,” Price said. “And that way at least we have a chance.”
The Tsar started to object, but Price cut him off before he could say anything. “Do it now,” she said.
“What this is?” Monster asked, picking up a wooden handle that lay next to a pile of small, feathered, metal-tipped spears. They were still in the qargi. Nukilik had brought in an armload of the spears and the odd handles.
“It is a spear-thrower,” Nukilik said.
“What is it?” Monster asked. He picked one up and examined it.
“It is used to throw a dart,” Nukilik said.
“These spears?” Monster asked.
“Darts,” Nukilik corrected him.
“The Bzadians have coil-guns,” Monster said. “We have dart throwers?”
“We have rifles also,” Nukilik said. “Hunting rifles. But they make noise, and these do not. In the Great Ice War my brother carried nothing but a spear-thrower and a sling of darts. Yet the demons feared him more than anything else. They called him the White Wolf.”
“Big Billy was the White Wolf?” Monster put the spear-thrower down.
“You have heard of the White Wolf?” Nukilik asked.
“The White Wolf is legend from the Ice War,” Monster said. “The stories are so unbelievable, most think they just fantasy.”
“Whatever you have heard, double it,” Nukilik said. “Then you will be halfway to the truth.”
Right on cue, Big Billy entered, at the head of a half-dozen Inupiat men with hunting rifles slung over their shoulders.
“I do not understand how you can kill with a dart,” Monster said. “Even your rifles will not penetrate Bzadian body armour. It will absorb two or three shots easily.”
Big Billy grunted something and the others laughed.
“We do not aim for the armour, but for the battery pack,” Nukilik said. “They are vulnerable, and in this place, killing the thermals in a suit is almost as deadly as killing a person.”
Monster thought of Emile and said nothing.
Big Billy spoke in Inupiat to Nukilik then handed him a bundle of cloth. Nukilik seemed surprised. He shrugged then handed the bundle to Monster. It was heavy.
“This belongs to my father,” Nukilik said. “He wants you to take it.”
Monster slowly unwrapped the cloth. Inside was an oilskin, and inside that a deadly black shape. A huge pistol – a hand cannon.
“Smith and Wesson, forty-four magnum,” Nukilik said.
Monster picked it up, feeling the balance.
Nukilik smiled. “You have made a real impression on my father. This is his most precious treasure. He has never even let me borrow it.”
“I will try to make good use of it,” Monster said.
Barnard closed the top hatch delicately, clicking it into place with the gentlest of touches.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
“How long have we got to get clear?” Price asked.
“I set the fuse for thirty minutes,” Barnard said. “Twenty-nine minutes on my mark … now.”
Price tapped a button to set a timer on the headup display inside her mask.
The exit hatch opened without warning and the Vaza stuck her head through it. She took in the scene in an instant and dived back down out of sight as Price hit the release for her coil-gun.
“Damn,” Price said.
“Gotta get after her,” The Tsar said, his coil-gun in his hands also. He ran towards the hatch.
“No!” Price said. “She’ll be waiting for you. Go down that hatch, you’re dead.”
THE BUNKER
[MISSION DAY 2, FEBRUARY 17, 2033. 1440 HOURS LOCAL TIME]
[OPERATIONS COMMAND CENTRE, THE PENTAGON, VIRGINIA]
Bilal stopped at the elevator that was the entrance to the command bunker. Wilton stopped behind him.
Two guards checked his ID card with a handheld scanner, then repeated the same for Wilton, before admitting them. The doors slid open with a slight whoosh, and slid shut behind them as soon as they entered.
When the lift opened on the lower level, another guard checked their IDs again. It was a high security area.
“Try to look older,” was Bilal’s only comment.
After the brightly lit corridors outside, the command centre itself was in virtual darkness, or so it seemed until Wilton’s eyes grew accustomed to the low levels of light, coming mainly from computer screens. Around the walls were an endless series of workstations, all occupied by uniformed officers. The ceiling was high and domed.
In the centre of the room was an oval table, littered with coffee cups and small plates of half-eaten sandwiches.
Wilton looked around the faces, recognising only a few of them. General Harry Whitehead was often seen on the news, commenting on the ups and downs of the war. General Jake Russell was the head of the Bering Strait Defence Force, and therefore Wilton’s commanding officer. The others he could identify by the nameplates in front of each chair. Wilton felt awkward and unsure of himself in such company, but tried not to show it. What was he, a teenager, doing here with all these high-powered commanders? Then again, he decided, he had battled aliens in the tunnels of Uluru and the top of the Wivenhoe Dam. Had any of these guys even seen combat?
“This is Blake,” Bilal said, and Wilton noticed that he deliberately omitted his surname. “He is a Bzadian translator. Fluent in all languages and dialects.”
Several of those at the table greeted him with a nod, and Wilton returned it, feeling extremely uncomfortable under their gaze and repeating over and over to himself. Uluru. Wivenhoe.
“We have a whole roomful of people for that,” Russell said. “What’s he doing in here?”
“If we pick up any transmissions from the ice, I want to know what they are saying while they are saying it,” Bilal said. “Not half an hour later after your roomful of experts have debated the meaning of every syllable.”
Russell opened his mouth to argue, then clearly thought the better of it and shook his head. Bilal pointed Wilton to a workstation before taking his own seat.
Wilton logged on to the computer then took his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. He made sure it was switched to silent.
The others at the table waited while Bilal punched up some information on the screen in front of him.
“You all got my report,” Bilal said.
“With no evidence to support it,” Russell said. “There’s no heat showing on the thermals. There’s no sign of movement. And it makes no sense, taking the southern route. There are fissures and ridges. At any moment the floes could break apart.”
“If my asset says there is a division of Bzadian tanks in that icefield, then they are there,” Bilal said. “Or would you rather wait until they were climbing ashore at Alaska before taking any action?”
“That’s not the point,” a woman in naval uniform said. She was Admiral Lynette Hooper, according to her nameplate. Wilton knew the name. She was in charge of the submarine fleet, and therefore most of the cruise missile capability that the allied forces had left. “If we waste a shipload of missiles turning half of the Bering Sea into ice cubes, and we are wrong, then we might as well lay down a red carpet for the Bzadians and say ‘Welcome to Washington’.”
“So we drop a nuke in there,” Russell said. “Heat of the blast melts the ice and anything that doesn’t get destroyed in the initial explosion ends up at the bottom of the Bering Sea.”
“Nuclear weapons are not an option,” Whitehead said. “They never have been.”
