clear reason to be. She stroked the soft new skin of her forearm and stared at the notes she had written on the electronic log in front of her.
She was the ranking duty officer, responsible for a staff of four junior officers, all of whom had been on the job much longer than she had.
She had been there for two months, assigned to the command center while she was recovering in the hospital, but most of that time she had been learning, training. Only in the last week had she been entrusted with the duty officer role.
She stroked her forearm again. She did that when she was nervous, running her fingers across the scar where the newlygrown baby skin of her forearm met the older, coarser skin of her upper arm.
The patrol ship, QW-67, had been investigating a strange pinging reported by the SONRAD station on St. Helena Island. The commander of the ship had taken it upon himself to depth-charge the contact, but a depth charge had malfunctioned, damaging equipment and injuring the ship’s crew. Worse, the contact appeared to be a military unit—Bzadian, not human—probably on some kind of exercise. That made it a “friendly fire” incident, which meant a full investigation.
Was that the reason for her nervousness? Or was it the possibility that there was more to this than met the eye?
She had been at Uluru when the audacious scumbugz attack had taken place, right in the heart of New Bzadia.
A firestorm of missiles had pounded the biggest Bzadian military base on the planet. She had been in a rotorcraft with the rest of her squad. They had just taken off when they were hit.
She was the only survivor.
Doctors had rebuilt her shattered body and regrown her burned skin, but after that day nothing on this planet—or any other—could persuade her to get back onto a rotorcraft. They had to sedate her to transport her between hospitals.
A soldier who’s afraid to fly was of no use to the military, so she was now stuck behind a desk.
But she remembered Uluru. If humans had once been prepared to launch an attack inside New Bzadia, they might be prepared to do so again.
Of course, there was no evidence of that. Was there? Merely a training exercise gone wrong and a malfunctioning bomb.
So why was her hand endlessly rubbing the new skin?
Better to err on the side of caution, she decided.
She tapped her video screen to bring it to life and punched in a code.
A face appeared on the screen almost immediately. A young man in the uniform of a plant operator.
“SONRAD communications,” he said. “I am Hez.”
7. THE LONGEST NIGHT
[2335 hours local time]
[St. Helena Island, Moreton Bay, New Bzadia]
PRICE SLITHERED FORWARD IN THE LIGHTLY BREAKING waves on the east side of the island, her eyeline just above water. She bobbed her head up and down with the waves, ducking down in the troughs to minimize her profile in case there were any watchers.
As far as she could tell, there were none.
She eased herself out of the water, almost invisible in her black wet suit, and snaked across the beach. The dark, muddy sand quickly healed itself, erasing the marks of her passage. Above her, on the highest points of the island, one to the north and one to the south, luminous geodesic spheres, like massive soccer balls, hid the spinning radar antennas.
She liked the taste of the salt water on her lips, the feel ofthe mud between her fingers. Here, she was in her element. On her own, operating in shards of darkness where no one would think to look. Dependent on no one. Responsible for no one. From her youngest days this had been her best defense and her most powerful weapon. If you didn’t get noticed, you didn’t get hurt.
To the north, the lights of the ship were heading toward the point. She checked the time. Less than fifteen minutes.
Price crawled forward and pulled up the waterproof equipment bag she had attached by a cord to her ankle. It contained a Bzadian security guard’s uniform, night-vision goggles, a pistol, and a can
She was the ranking duty officer, responsible for a staff of four junior officers, all of whom had been on the job much longer than she had.
She had been there for two months, assigned to the command center while she was recovering in the hospital, but most of that time she had been learning, training. Only in the last week had she been entrusted with the duty officer role.
She stroked her forearm again. She did that when she was nervous, running her fingers across the scar where the newlygrown baby skin of her forearm met the older, coarser skin of her upper arm.
The patrol ship, QW-67, had been investigating a strange pinging reported by the SONRAD station on St. Helena Island. The commander of the ship had taken it upon himself to depth-charge the contact, but a depth charge had malfunctioned, damaging equipment and injuring the ship’s crew. Worse, the contact appeared to be a military unit—Bzadian, not human—probably on some kind of exercise. That made it a “friendly fire” incident, which meant a full investigation.
Was that the reason for her nervousness? Or was it the possibility that there was more to this than met the eye?
She had been at Uluru when the audacious scumbugz attack had taken place, right in the heart of New Bzadia.
A firestorm of missiles had pounded the biggest Bzadian military base on the planet. She had been in a rotorcraft with the rest of her squad. They had just taken off when they were hit.
She was the only survivor.
Doctors had rebuilt her shattered body and regrown her burned skin, but after that day nothing on this planet—or any other—could persuade her to get back onto a rotorcraft. They had to sedate her to transport her between hospitals.
A soldier who’s afraid to fly was of no use to the military, so she was now stuck behind a desk.
But she remembered Uluru. If humans had once been prepared to launch an attack inside New Bzadia, they might be prepared to do so again.
Of course, there was no evidence of that. Was there? Merely a training exercise gone wrong and a malfunctioning bomb.
So why was her hand endlessly rubbing the new skin?
Better to err on the side of caution, she decided.
She tapped her video screen to bring it to life and punched in a code.
A face appeared on the screen almost immediately. A young man in the uniform of a plant operator.
“SONRAD communications,” he said. “I am Hez.”
7. THE LONGEST NIGHT
[2335 hours local time]
[St. Helena Island, Moreton Bay, New Bzadia]
PRICE SLITHERED FORWARD IN THE LIGHTLY BREAKING waves on the east side of the island, her eyeline just above water. She bobbed her head up and down with the waves, ducking down in the troughs to minimize her profile in case there were any watchers.
As far as she could tell, there were none.
She eased herself out of the water, almost invisible in her black wet suit, and snaked across the beach. The dark, muddy sand quickly healed itself, erasing the marks of her passage. Above her, on the highest points of the island, one to the north and one to the south, luminous geodesic spheres, like massive soccer balls, hid the spinning radar antennas.
She liked the taste of the salt water on her lips, the feel ofthe mud between her fingers. Here, she was in her element. On her own, operating in shards of darkness where no one would think to look. Dependent on no one. Responsible for no one. From her youngest days this had been her best defense and her most powerful weapon. If you didn’t get noticed, you didn’t get hurt.
To the north, the lights of the ship were heading toward the point. She checked the time. Less than fifteen minutes.
Price crawled forward and pulled up the waterproof equipment bag she had attached by a cord to her ankle. It contained a Bzadian security guard’s uniform, night-vision goggles, a pistol, and a can
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