said.
“They can do what they like. We’re not,” Chisnall said.
“Puffers aren’t that bad,” Barnard said. “You can hit Bzadian body armor two or three times with metal bullets and they still keep on shooting at you. Hit them once in the right spot with a puffer, and they’re down. Not permanently, but long enough.”
“Yeah, but you gotta hit them in exactly the right spot,” Wilton said.
“Since when has this been a problem for you?” Barnard asked.
“Since, I dunno, never,” Wilton admitted.
Chisnall smiled. Wilton’s reputation as a sharpshooter was widespread. It was said that he could shoot the eye out of a fast-moving eagle at five hundred meters and then shoot out the other eye.
“In any case, orders are orders,” Chisnall said.
About a hundred feet into the mangrove swamp, Price hit firm ground—a track that led into the heart of the island.
After a quick debate with herself, she decided to take it. There might be alarms or booby traps along the track, but her progress through the swamp was so slow that she wasn’t goingto make it to the complex before the ship reached the wharf if she didn’t find a faster way. The track was dead straight and seemed clear. It headed due east, toward the northernmost of the two geodesic radar spheres.
A six-foot-high razor-wire fence marked the point where the swamp met solid ground. It was marked with Bzadian high-voltage symbols. Behind the fence was a line of trees. The ground was damp from the previous day’s rain, and one of the fence posts was fizzing and sparking as the water reacted with the surging electric current.
With time slipping away, Price skirted along the fence until she found a branch that grew out over the fence. She tossed her equipment bag up and over the branch, keeping a hold on its long cord and catching it lightly on the other side. She twisted the two ends of the cord together, then hauled herself up until she could stretch out and lock her fingers on to the branch. A few seconds later, she was shimmying down the trunk of the tree, on the other side of the fence. She was right below the radar dome and could hear the swishing of the antenna inside the brightly lit sphere on top of the hill. She moved up to it, a short, easy climb, staying in the tree line lest the glow from the sphere reveal her to any observers.
From the peak of the hill she could see the lights of the ship, already halfway to the wharf on the western side of the island.
“I’m inside the perimeter,” she murmured on her comm.
“Quick … can,” Chisnall said. “We’ve … and rounded the … approaching …”
The comm cut in and out, and Price realized the powerful radar antenna above her was interfering with the signal from the low-powered comm radio.
“I can go faster,” she said. “But not if you don’t want me to be seen.”
“Don’t … seen,” Chisnall said.
It was 23:43. She had less than seven minutes. She made her way through an olive grove, the branches leafy and full of fruit at this time of year. Old stone buildings rose out of the ground in front of her, roofless and crumbled, the ruins of a prison. Price moved like a ghost, flitting from shadow to shadow, with slow movements that would not catch the eye.
Below, in a small dip in the center of the island, she could see the complex of buildings that was the SONRAD station. They had all studied the satellite images. It was a modular Bzadian design. A cluster of domes, connected by plastic tubes in a shape that ACOG had nicknamed the “turtle.” The turtle’s body—the largest dome—was in the center and probably housed the administration offices, according to the satellite analysis experts. The turtle’s legs—the four smaller domes—were supplies storage, power plant, equipment, and a vehicle garage. The turtle’s head housed the sonar equipment and operators. The entrance to the complex was via the tail, a small security pod to the south.
The
“They can do what they like. We’re not,” Chisnall said.
“Puffers aren’t that bad,” Barnard said. “You can hit Bzadian body armor two or three times with metal bullets and they still keep on shooting at you. Hit them once in the right spot with a puffer, and they’re down. Not permanently, but long enough.”
“Yeah, but you gotta hit them in exactly the right spot,” Wilton said.
“Since when has this been a problem for you?” Barnard asked.
“Since, I dunno, never,” Wilton admitted.
Chisnall smiled. Wilton’s reputation as a sharpshooter was widespread. It was said that he could shoot the eye out of a fast-moving eagle at five hundred meters and then shoot out the other eye.
“In any case, orders are orders,” Chisnall said.
About a hundred feet into the mangrove swamp, Price hit firm ground—a track that led into the heart of the island.
After a quick debate with herself, she decided to take it. There might be alarms or booby traps along the track, but her progress through the swamp was so slow that she wasn’t goingto make it to the complex before the ship reached the wharf if she didn’t find a faster way. The track was dead straight and seemed clear. It headed due east, toward the northernmost of the two geodesic radar spheres.
A six-foot-high razor-wire fence marked the point where the swamp met solid ground. It was marked with Bzadian high-voltage symbols. Behind the fence was a line of trees. The ground was damp from the previous day’s rain, and one of the fence posts was fizzing and sparking as the water reacted with the surging electric current.
With time slipping away, Price skirted along the fence until she found a branch that grew out over the fence. She tossed her equipment bag up and over the branch, keeping a hold on its long cord and catching it lightly on the other side. She twisted the two ends of the cord together, then hauled herself up until she could stretch out and lock her fingers on to the branch. A few seconds later, she was shimmying down the trunk of the tree, on the other side of the fence. She was right below the radar dome and could hear the swishing of the antenna inside the brightly lit sphere on top of the hill. She moved up to it, a short, easy climb, staying in the tree line lest the glow from the sphere reveal her to any observers.
From the peak of the hill she could see the lights of the ship, already halfway to the wharf on the western side of the island.
“I’m inside the perimeter,” she murmured on her comm.
“Quick … can,” Chisnall said. “We’ve … and rounded the … approaching …”
The comm cut in and out, and Price realized the powerful radar antenna above her was interfering with the signal from the low-powered comm radio.
“I can go faster,” she said. “But not if you don’t want me to be seen.”
“Don’t … seen,” Chisnall said.
It was 23:43. She had less than seven minutes. She made her way through an olive grove, the branches leafy and full of fruit at this time of year. Old stone buildings rose out of the ground in front of her, roofless and crumbled, the ruins of a prison. Price moved like a ghost, flitting from shadow to shadow, with slow movements that would not catch the eye.
Below, in a small dip in the center of the island, she could see the complex of buildings that was the SONRAD station. They had all studied the satellite images. It was a modular Bzadian design. A cluster of domes, connected by plastic tubes in a shape that ACOG had nicknamed the “turtle.” The turtle’s body—the largest dome—was in the center and probably housed the administration offices, according to the satellite analysis experts. The turtle’s legs—the four smaller domes—were supplies storage, power plant, equipment, and a vehicle garage. The turtle’s head housed the sonar equipment and operators. The entrance to the complex was via the tail, a small security pod to the south.
The
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