work.
“Sh-shoot,” he said, slamming a hand into the desert floor. Sand sprayed in all directions. “Shoot, shoot, shoot!” Without the laser comm, they had no way of communicating with their base. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Displays of emotion like that helped nobody.
“What do we do, LT?” Brogan asked.
“Bring it anyway. Maybe it’ll start working again.”
He doubted that would happen, just as he doubted that it was a coincidence that it had stopped working. Under coverof the sandstorm, someone had sabotaged the single most important piece of equipment they carried. Hunter must have had his suspicions. Maybe he’d caught them in the act, and the result of that was the snake in his sleeping bag. Chisnall mentally kicked himself. If only he’d taken the time to listen to Hunter earlier.
“Jeez, Ryan,” Brogan said, shaking her head. “We can’t carry on now. Even if we find something, we won’t be able to let base know what we’ve found.”
“Just get moving,” Chisnall said.
“Seriously, LT, perhaps we should ease up for a bit,” Brogan said. “Most of these guys have never even seen a dead body before, let alone someone they know. A friend of theirs. They might need a little time to get their heads around it.”
“My orders are to proceed to Uluru without delay,” Chisnall said.
She shook her head slowly. “Hunter just died. Don’t you feel anything?”
He did. That was the problem.
“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” he said.
“Ryan, I know what happened in Bering Strait,” she said. “But—”
Chisnall stood and eyeballed her. “Don’t go there,
Sergeant
Brogan,” he said. “You asked. I answered. We are Oscar Mike in twenty. Get him buried. Deep, so the dingoes don’t get him.”
Specialist Stephen Huntington was sixteen.
He was the first Angel to die.
5. BENDA HILL
[MISSION DAY 5]
[0100 hours]
[Benda Hill, New Bzadia]
THE AMBUSH HAPPENED ON THE LAST DAY OF THEIR HIKE, as they were passing Benda Hill.
After three nights of tabbing, Chisnall was moving more easily, the ragged agony of his back and legs now just a dull, constant throb.
The desert here was vastly different from the scarred hillsides of Mount Morris or the long furrowed dunes of the southern desert. It was flat, and the ground was hard. Had he landed on the semi-inflated half-pipe in this part of the desert, he would not have survived. Benda Hill was a large, rounded knob of rock, protruding from the desert plane. Gray by daylight but green in their NV goggles. The sideslooked smooth but the top was pitted and creviced by millions of years of harsh Australian weather.
The loss of Hunter had affected the entire team. Chisnall could feel it. All the training in the world could not prepare you for the first time you lost a comrade.
“Damn this war,” Wilton said, surprising them all with his vehemence. “Damn it. I’m sixteen: I should be shredding the backcountry at Whistler, not busting a gut humping a pack through this hellhole, surrounded by deadly snakes and butt-ugly aliens who want to kill me.”
“I know it,” Price agreed. “I should be hanging out behind the pub, scrounging old cigarette butts out of the sand trays while my dad’s getting smashed inside and my mum is pouring the housekeeping into the pokies.”
“Does anyone here speak Kiwi?” Wilton asked.
Chisnall shook his head. “I have no idea what she said.”
It was Brogan who seemed to understand, resting her hand lightly on Price’s shoulder. “That was home?”
“Nothing ever changes,” Price said.
“Damn this war,” Wilton said again.
“How about you, Monster?” Chisnall asked.
“My dudes, if not for the war, the Monster would be drinking beer with his buddies until he couldn’t see straight.” His booming laugh filled the desert around them.
“You can’t drink beer; you’re only sixteen,” Brogan said.
“I drank some beer once,” Price said. “Didn’t like it much.”
“Me
“Sh-shoot,” he said, slamming a hand into the desert floor. Sand sprayed in all directions. “Shoot, shoot, shoot!” Without the laser comm, they had no way of communicating with their base. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Displays of emotion like that helped nobody.
“What do we do, LT?” Brogan asked.
“Bring it anyway. Maybe it’ll start working again.”
He doubted that would happen, just as he doubted that it was a coincidence that it had stopped working. Under coverof the sandstorm, someone had sabotaged the single most important piece of equipment they carried. Hunter must have had his suspicions. Maybe he’d caught them in the act, and the result of that was the snake in his sleeping bag. Chisnall mentally kicked himself. If only he’d taken the time to listen to Hunter earlier.
“Jeez, Ryan,” Brogan said, shaking her head. “We can’t carry on now. Even if we find something, we won’t be able to let base know what we’ve found.”
“Just get moving,” Chisnall said.
“Seriously, LT, perhaps we should ease up for a bit,” Brogan said. “Most of these guys have never even seen a dead body before, let alone someone they know. A friend of theirs. They might need a little time to get their heads around it.”
“My orders are to proceed to Uluru without delay,” Chisnall said.
She shook her head slowly. “Hunter just died. Don’t you feel anything?”
He did. That was the problem.
“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” he said.
“Ryan, I know what happened in Bering Strait,” she said. “But—”
Chisnall stood and eyeballed her. “Don’t go there,
Sergeant
Brogan,” he said. “You asked. I answered. We are Oscar Mike in twenty. Get him buried. Deep, so the dingoes don’t get him.”
Specialist Stephen Huntington was sixteen.
He was the first Angel to die.
5. BENDA HILL
[MISSION DAY 5]
[0100 hours]
[Benda Hill, New Bzadia]
THE AMBUSH HAPPENED ON THE LAST DAY OF THEIR HIKE, as they were passing Benda Hill.
After three nights of tabbing, Chisnall was moving more easily, the ragged agony of his back and legs now just a dull, constant throb.
The desert here was vastly different from the scarred hillsides of Mount Morris or the long furrowed dunes of the southern desert. It was flat, and the ground was hard. Had he landed on the semi-inflated half-pipe in this part of the desert, he would not have survived. Benda Hill was a large, rounded knob of rock, protruding from the desert plane. Gray by daylight but green in their NV goggles. The sideslooked smooth but the top was pitted and creviced by millions of years of harsh Australian weather.
The loss of Hunter had affected the entire team. Chisnall could feel it. All the training in the world could not prepare you for the first time you lost a comrade.
“Damn this war,” Wilton said, surprising them all with his vehemence. “Damn it. I’m sixteen: I should be shredding the backcountry at Whistler, not busting a gut humping a pack through this hellhole, surrounded by deadly snakes and butt-ugly aliens who want to kill me.”
“I know it,” Price agreed. “I should be hanging out behind the pub, scrounging old cigarette butts out of the sand trays while my dad’s getting smashed inside and my mum is pouring the housekeeping into the pokies.”
“Does anyone here speak Kiwi?” Wilton asked.
Chisnall shook his head. “I have no idea what she said.”
It was Brogan who seemed to understand, resting her hand lightly on Price’s shoulder. “That was home?”
“Nothing ever changes,” Price said.
“Damn this war,” Wilton said again.
“How about you, Monster?” Chisnall asked.
“My dudes, if not for the war, the Monster would be drinking beer with his buddies until he couldn’t see straight.” His booming laugh filled the desert around them.
“You can’t drink beer; you’re only sixteen,” Brogan said.
“I drank some beer once,” Price said. “Didn’t like it much.”
“Me
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