The Assault - By Brian Falkner Page 0,2

suit compacted slightly as the air pressure in the bay increased.

“I’m not getting paid enough for this,” Wilton said.

“You’re getting paid?” Brogan asked.

“Stand by. Stand by.”

Chisnall gripped the handles on his half-pipe tightly. His pulse was racing, but there was no trace of panic. Not now. They had done this dozens of times in training and hundreds of times in the simulator. Reflexes took over. His mind was on autopilot, preparing for the sudden drop and the shocking blast of air.

Only seconds now.

“Angel Chariot, this is Heaven. We are seeing zero two bogies forming up in attack position on your six. How copy?”

“Clear copy. I see them, Heaven.”

More seconds passed.

“What are they doing?” Wilton’s words came through gritted teeth.

“Cut the chatter and prepare to Echo Victor,” Chisnall said.

“Missile lock! Missile lock! Deploying chaff. Echo Victor. Echo Victor. Echo Victor.”

One moment there was a solid floor beneath them, and the next, nothing.

The bomb bay doors slid away instantly, and the pressure inside blasted them from the aircraft in a kick of rushing air. They were out, the F-35 pulling up and to the right. Chisnall clung to his half-pipe, trying to meld himself with the device as they rode the angular, bomblike shapes out into the night sky.

The cold was immediate and shocking, like needles of ice all over his body, despite his thermal flight suit. His breath fogged his faceplate for a second before the suit’s internal mechanisms took care of it. The slipstream tore at his helmet and the heavy leather of his flight gloves, trying to rip him from his half-pipe. Chaff cylinders were exploding around him as he fell through twirling spirals of metal that turned the sky to silver.

Six highly trained Special Forces soldiers falling through the night.

One air-cushioned equipment canister full of supplies.

Zero parachutes.

[2350 hours]

[Early Warning Radar Center, Uluru Military Base, New Bzadia]

The glow of the radar screen added its light to those of the others around the circumference of the room, casting a green haze over everything and everyone.

Inzusu’s eyes were fixed on a dot on the screen. Just a few glowing pixels, but at that moment every cell in his body was focused on them. A human jet, invading Bzadian airspace. The first he had seen in almost two years of radar duty.

It was beyond reason that the scumbugz, the humans, on the verge of being wiped from the face of the planet, would dare to send an aircraft here, to the heart of New Bzadia.

“You’re sure there’s just one intruder?” Czali, his supervisor, leaned over his shoulder.

Inzusu rotated the three-dimensional display around to the horizontal.

“There’s just a single return, and if there were two of them, there would have to be some horizontal or vertical separation. I’m sure it’s a single plane.”

“Makes no sense,” Czali murmured. “It’s not an attack, and they don’t need recon; they have satellites to do that.”

Every move they made on this god-forgotten planet was closely watched by the satellite eyes of the natives.

“By Azoh!” Inzusu said as a bright flare appeared where the dot had been.

“It’s just chaff,” Czali said. “Where are our interceptors?”

Inzusu pointed at a group of red dots on the screen, each marked with a number and a call sign. “We already have missile lock. The chaff won’t help them.”

Czali made a murmuring sound of agreement.

“What’s this?” Inzusu asked, pointing at a faint flicker on the screen.

Czali leaned forward. Inzusu rotated the display up and down, trying different angles and zooming in. Whatever it was, it was dropping from the chaff cloud, just the faintest of ghostly echoes.

“Empty chaff canister?” Czali suggested.

“There’s another one,” Inzusu said. “Parachutes? Have the scumbugz pilots bailed out?”

Czali shook her head. “Parachutes give a much bigger return, and these are falling, not floating. Just debris, I think, but keep an eye on them.”

“We’re firing,” Inzusu said, forgetting the ghosts. He watched with excitement as two tiny dots detached from one of the interceptors and streaked toward the intruder.

Three seconds into the fall, Chisnall thrust the half-pipe away and starfished, the webbing between his arms and legs grabbing at the air and slowing his fall. Not much, but enough. His half-pipe, sleek and angular, continued to fall, disappearing below him.

He was through the chaff cloud now and encased in a dark blanket of night. Below him, Australia, the great desert, stretched on forever. Only a faint thumbprint of city light far to the south interrupted the vast emptiness. Somewhere near him were the five phantoms that were his team members,