The Assault - By Brian Falkner Page 0,27

not yet identified the dots as a threat.

His brain and the signal analysis computer both set off warning bells at the same time.

None of the signals was broadcasting an identification code.

They were enemy aircraft.

“Azoh!”

His hand hit the alarm button by the side of his keyboard even as he felt Lozpe’s breath on the back on his neck.

“What is it? What have you got?” Lozpe asked, not yet registering the cloud pattern at the top of the screen.

“Enemy aircraft inbound,” Inzusu said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Where?” Lozpe seemed confused. “What are they throwing at us today?”

Inzusu pointed to the fuzzy mass at the top of the screen.

“Everything,” he said.

Chisnall could see the Bzadian fast movers in the distance, arcs of light in the sky, circling around for another attack.

“Bring it on,” Wilton roared.

Chisnall searched desperately around them. They were out in the open now, with no chance of evasion and no cover. Sitting ducks.

“Wait!” Price’s voice. “They’re peeling off.”

“You’re sure?” Chisnall asked.

“Why?” Brogan asked.

Chisnall said nothing, his eyes fixed on the darkened night sky. The troop carrier was bugging out as well.

The air defenses around Uluru exploded into life.

“What the hell?” Brogan said.

“The raid,” Chisnall said. “It’s started.”

“What raid?” Brogan asked.

“Let’s get back up the hill,” Chisnall said. “I want a ticket to this show.”

They worked their way around to the gentle northern slope of Benda Hill and back up to the top. Their former defensive positions were now crumbled, blackened rock. They had got out just in time.

Bzadian fast movers were streaming in from the east and west to meet the threat from the north, and there were constant flashes in the sky above them.

“They’re too small to be fighters,” Inzusu said. His fingers flicked over the display, spinning it, zooming it. “They’re drones, probably predators.”

“How many planes have we got up against them?” Lozpe asked.

“Not enough,” Inzusu said. He watched the screen for another few seconds. It was alive with swarms of Bzadian defenders moving to intercept the intruders. Missiles were flying in both directions. He saw two defenders get hit simultaneously and tumble from the sky. The predators were firing antiair. That was unusual.

Surface-to-air missile (SAM) sites around Uluru lit up. Inzusu glanced at one of the live-cam feeds. He saw fiery lines streak up into the sky as the SAMs engaged the enemy, but there were matching streaks of lightning emerging from the sky and tracing back down the path of the SAMs.

Every time a SAM battery fired, it gave away its position, and the scumbugz had advanced anti-SAMs. The SAM batteries had to keep moving constantly to avoid becoming a target.

He could feel the concussions now, vibrating through the ground as missiles impacted above their heads.

“Wait a minute,” he said, his eyes flicking between the radar screen and the analysis readouts.

“What is it?” Lozpe asked. When Inzusu didn’t immediately answer, he repeated the question. “What is it?”

“It’s all antiair and anti-SAM,” Inzusu said. “Everything. The entire attack is aimed at our defensive aircraft screen and our SAM sites. They’re not attacking any other ground installations.”

“Which means?”

“They’re softening us up.”

He reached for the radio but got only static. He looked at Lozpe in horror. “They’ve jammed our comms.”

“And our radar.” Lozpe seemed dazed, as if shocked by the speed and scale of what he was seeing.

Inzusu turned back to the radar screen in time to see a cloud of white noise descend over it, blocking all the signals. The enemy was systematically destroying their defenses and jamming the radar and communications.

That could mean only one thing.

A glow in the sky ahead of them grew rapidly larger and turned into a Bzadian jet—a big one, a type two. It was heading straight for them, its wings on fire.

It passed so low overhead that they could feel its heat before it crashed and sent up a fireball in the desert to the south.

“Booyah,” Wilton said quietly.

Ahead of them, the sky was alive with the constant thunderclap of explosions.

A faint noise was flicking at Chisnall’s ears. He turned his head slightly and was greeted by a sudden roaring sound and a blast of air.

“What the—” Brogan said.

It was a missile. Ground hugging, to avoid radar. It streaked past the hill they were on at such a low altitude that they were actually looking down on it as it passed.

What kind it was, Chisnall couldn’t tell. The speed at which it was traveling meant that it was no more than a rush of air and a streak of light, followed