Webster had gone down on his stomach to examine it, using the tip of his knife to probe under Nash’s foot. He was having difficulty seeing under Nash’s foot in the moonlight.

  “I felt it give. There’s definitely something under there.”

  Webster scraped away a section of ice with the blade. “Looks like they’ve used some kind of sand to cover whatever it is.”

  “And then the sand’s frozen. Lucky for me. If that hadn’t been the case we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Webster extracted the torch from his belt, examining the small mound from different directions.

  “Pressure mat?” Nash said.

  “I can’t say for sure, but it looks like. Attached to some kind of ordnance I’ve not seen before.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure the Da’al have all kinds of clever tricks up their sleeve.”

  Which left them in something of a dilemma. They had to assume that by stepping on the device, Nash had unwittingly activated it, so that as soon as he lifted his foot it would explode. Even if Nash managed to survive the explosion, the noise it created would invariably alert the Da’al to their presence. And, once that happened, it was only going to go one way.

  “Whichever way we play this, we’re screwed,” Nash said.

  “I could track back the way we came,” Webster suggested. “See if I can find a big enough rock.”

  With some land-based mines the detonation device could be fooled by substituting a soldier’s weight with that of a heavy object but this was a strategy tinged with too many unknowables.

  “Not going to happen,” Nash said. “How long’ve we got before our diversion kicks in?”

  “Twelve minutes.”

  The Marines manning the perimeter were due to begin their counter offensive at midnight. This was intended to provide Webster and Nash with enough of a distraction so that they could plant their explosives.

  “Okay!” the tendons in Nash’s neck bulged but otherwise he seemed totally composed. “We’re wasting time here. Nothing else for it: you’re going to have to press on alone.”

  Webster lifted his head ever so slightly. “I’m sorry?”

  “Look, don’t worry about me, I’ll work something out. But we’re only going to get one crack at this. You’re going to have to go it alone.”

  Webster levered himself up off the frozen ground. “You can’t be serious: you’re the so-called demolition expert.”

  “Yes, but you’re the engineer. You’ll know how to disable one of those shuttles better than anyone.”

  Webster slowly got to his feet, brushing the snow off his jacket. “These are alien craft we’re talking about. I wouldn’t have the first idea. What am I supposed to do with all these explosives?”

  “They’re all pretty straightforward, commander, and you’ve done the training. The rest you’ll be able to work out for yourself.”

  Webster gave him an angry glare. He hadn’t wanted any part of this but Nash had insisted and now here he was taking the lead. He wasn’t a Marine, he didn’t have the temperament for this sort of work. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for.

  “And the plan is: you’re going to stay here until I get back? Right?”

  “Like I said,” Nash’s voice was cold and distant. “No need to worry about me.”

  Webster was taken with a sudden urge to punch Nash in his stupid, supercilious face. He wasn’t worried about Nash. He was worried about this turning into a complete shit show.

  His heart was hammering away in his chest probably a lot faster than Nash’s. He made an effort to calm himself down.

  “Alright, but if I agree to do this, I’m going to need your help.”

  Webster reached into his pocket and fished out an ear bead. He handed it to Nash.

  “You’re going to have to talk me through it via comms.”

  “I’m not breaking radio silence under any circumstances. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “No,” Webster pointed at Nash’s foot. “And neither was this.”

  “As soon as I start broadcasting the Da’al are going to be onto us.”

  “Not necessarily. Not if we wait until after the counter offensive. They’ll likely pick it up as background chatter.”

  Nash let out a low guttural growl.

  Webster said, “I’m not moving until you agree. I’m willing to go in there so long as you’re there to back me up.”

  “What if you get in there and I refuse to co-operate?”

  “Then I’d have to assume that this mine has detonated and my cover is blown. I’d be forced to make a run for it.”

  “You’re just going to have to get on with it. There is no other way.”

  “You’re right – either we agree to work together or this whole thing grinds to a halt.”

  The muscle in Nash’s jaw slowly clenched and unclenched.

  “These the sort of cheesy pep talks you give your crew?”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Nash presented his palm so that Webster could place the ear-bead at its centre.

  “Alright,” he said. “Have it your way.”

  *

  Webster approached the enemy camp from the rear, pausing every couple of steps to check his footing. It took him longer than anticipated so he arrived at the camp’s perimeter just in time to hear the Marines begin their fake counter offensive. There was suddenly movement all over the camp, although blessedly none of it coming in his direction.

  After relieving Nash of his explosives, Webster had ended up carrying them all and the increased effort involved had left him drenched with sweat. A couple of hexagonal packing cases had been abandoned at the front of the camp and he took the opportunity of sheltering behind these for a moment. A quick look inside turned up nothing of any real interest, just a handful of metal poles which looked as if they might have been used in constructing some of the camp’s larger structures.

  The lay-out of the camp was strangely similar to one he had attended back during his time training. The only thing which struck him as being markedly different was the harsh, brackish smell of the sea, which seemed to permeate everything. He’d read LaCruz Jackson’s account of encountering some vast undersea creature on-board the first Da’al ship they’d destroyed but had dismissed it as fanciful nonsense. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The three shuttles were laid out like the lower half of a clock face with one at three o’clock, six o’clock and nine o’clock respectively. The one positioned at three o’clock was over to his right, about twenty metres away. It appeared unattended though he wasn’t fool enough to think that this was necessarily the case.

  Over to his left, he saw ground crew attending to the six o’clock shuttle. He saw what appeared to be ground crewmen going over the one on his far left. Black hoses snaked across the ice and as he watched, ghostly plumes of steam rose into the night sky. He counted five Da’al soldiers all of whom were completely focussed on what it was they were doing. He couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to be some kind of refuelling operation, which meant one of two things: either they were preparing to return to orbit or they knew about Markham’s escape route and were intent on severing it.

  A direct assault on this vehicle would be out of the question – they’d cut him down before he got within twenty metres – but if he used his explosives wisely, he might yet be able to make this work.

  Prompted into action, he began moving towards the unprotected three o’clock shuttle to his right. He walked purposefully over in that direction, resisting the urge to run and made it across to the shuttle without drawing any attention to himself. The shuttle was bigger than the other two and, by the look of it, had been set up as a light haulier rather than for carrying passengers. The aft ramp was down meaning that he was able to look directly inside. The interior had been ripped out to make room for roughly a dozen packing cases stacked one on top of the other. They were made of a peculiar material he hadn’t seen the like of before. When he poked one of them, they felt soft and pliant but with a strange, oily texture to them.

  After a quick recce around the front of the craft to ensure that there was no one there, he ventured back inside to find somewhere to attach his explosives. There was a central spar running right around the interior and he attached one pack to the front section and one to the back. He considered using more – he’d arrived with nearly twenty packages - but resisted the urge. There was no telling what might happen and, technically, one package should be enough. Two should be more than enough.

  As he backed away from the shuttle, the temptation to detonate the explosives right away was strong but he decided that he would just have to wait. His priority now had to be the six o’clock shuttle. If he couldn’t get inside to plant his explosives then he’d have to find some other means of disabling it.

  There was some activity going on over on the far side of the six o’clock shuttle. He couldn’t see what they were up to, all he could hear was a lot of clanking sounds accompanied every now and then by the whine of a drill. With the ground crew on the far side, he figured that if he worked quickly then he would have a half decent chance of planting his explosives before they even noticed.

  And yet still he hesitated. It was different working alone than it had been when he’d been working with Markham and his team because now, with no one around to watch his back, it all felt very different. He felt anxious and isolated, a situation not helped by the fact that at any point he could simply call the whole thing off and make a tactical withdrawal. There would be no shame in it and only Nash would know the truth of it - if Nash survived, that was.

  Webster took out his sidearm but kept it tight against his side. It wouldn’t be much use against a well-armed opponent but just the feel of it gave him the resolve he needed. He moved purposefully towards the shuttle but just as he did so, a group of Da’al ground crew appeared from the rear of the camp. They were struggling with something heavy enough to occupy all their attention and so didn’t give Webster as much as a second glance.

  The group carried their load only a short distance before they were forced to lower it to the ground. Webster suspected that they might be carrying their version of a heavy ordnance missile but, on further observation, he realised it was some kind of high calibre weapon. His suspicions were confirmed when the group started securing it to the shuttle’s underside. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this was a type of chin turret which they could use to target Markham and his party. The shuttle might not be able to land in the mountains but that wouldn’t stop them slaughtering his compatriots from the air.

  Webster wasn’t sure how to proceed. There was no point destroying the other two shuttles if the third one was going to do all the damage but he also didn’t see how he was going to prevail against such a large number of hostiles.

  It was at that point that he was reminded of the motto of the former United Kingdom’s Special Boat Service. It was one which he had long celebrated.

  Not By Strength, By Guile.

  And slowly, a plan began to present itself.

  Indeed he was so distracted by working out the details of his plan while he attached his explosives to the underside of the second shuttle that he made his first tactical error. He forgot to stay on the look-out for hostiles. He was flat on his back, looking up when the pilot clambered out of the cockpit area and dropped to the ground, landing within touching distance.

  He busied himself with one of the panels on the shuttle’s front end when he suddenly stopped what he was doing and brought his head down to look under the craft.

  Realising that he was out of time, Webster began trying to jam the package sideways into a small gap directly behind the front landing pad. He was still struggling to make it attach when the Da’al pilot grabbed him and pulled him out into the early morning light. Even though Webster had the weight advantage, he was still on his back and the pilot was all over him, his feet proving as dextrous as his hands. Webster tried to punch him but missed. Next thing, his opponent had grabbed hold of his chest and was starting to twist.

  It took Webster several seconds for him to register the pain. It felt like the pilot was trying to tear his nipple off, while all the while making some fairly distressing clicking sounds. Webster lashed out with both feet, catching his opponent in the central thorax, forcing him to let go.

  Webster struggled to his feet and seeing the blood soaking the front of his uniform, drew his pistol. Either the pilot didn’t realise what it was or simply didn’t care wasn’t completely clear but it spread its legs in order to lower its centre of gravity. Then it extended its four arms, which unfurled like folded blades designed to slice and tear flesh.

  The obvious thing was just to shoot it but, when he looked around, he saw that they were yet to draw anyone’s attention so decided to take a chance. He took hold of the pistol by the barrel and held it like a club.

  But, as he moved onto the offensive, the pilot’s arms snaked out and, although he managed to evade most of them, one of them hit home. It sliced through his jacket and embedded itself in his left shoulder. Then it started twisting.

  Webster brought the gun around and caught the pilot across the face but his opponent wouldn’t let up, forcing its claw deeper into his flesh.

  The pain was indescribable and Webster lost all sense of restraint, smashing the butt of the pistol repeatedly into the pilot’s face. But still, it wouldn’t let go and it wasn’t until he’d broken off one of its mandibles and damaged one of its eye palps that it finally staggered away.

  Webster’s fingers probed the wound in his shoulder. It was bleeding profusely but for some reason he could feel no pain and the arm appeared to be working fine.

  However, it soon became obvious that the pilot’s clicks had had the desired effect as a number of ground crew broke off from what they were doing and started moving over in his direction. He counted eight of them but these clearly weren’t ground troops and seemed unsure how best to proceed.

  Webster raised his pistol and fired a couple of shot over their heads more in an attempt to dissuade them than anything. The tactic seemed to work, they didn’t move any closer but then they started talking to one another.

  He was running out of time.

  Reaching round his back, he located the detonator on his belt and carefully unclipped it.

  Although he couldn’t understand what they were saying, it was obvious that the pilot was trying to get them organised. It wouldn’t be long before they tried to rush him.

  Using just his thumb, he managed to arm the detonator. Then it was just a case of pressing it.

  The ground rocked as a huge explosion caught him from behind, followed by a gust of super-heated air which assaulted his ears before knocking him to the ground. He watched in awe as the fiery remains of the shuttle spiralled over his head, coming to earth a few metres away in a shower of burning fuel.

  The Da’al crewmen were as stunned by the turn of events as he was with many of them visibly injured. They made no attempt to approach him, looking at him with a combination of fear and suspicion as a high pitched, susurrating sound filling the air. It built to a strange cacophony of noise as each one of them breathed out, expelling air across their vibrating mandibles.

  The effect was chilling, calculated to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies and it had just that effect on Webster now. He began to doubt himself realised with a sinking feeling that he’d dropped his pistol when the shuttle had exploded.

  If Nash had been there, Webster thought, he might have had a chance but, vastly outnumbered as he was, his position was looking increasingly perilous. He’d always been taught that a tactical withdrawal was preferable in a situation like this but he also knew that if he allowed that other shuttle to get airborne, it would mark the end for Markham and the others.

  But it was looking more and more likely that he wasn’t going to get a say in the matter. He was going to have to play out this hand with the cards he’d been dealt.

  Nervously, Webster reached behind his back hoping to find the second detonator attached to his belt. Only it wasn’t there.

  He ran his fingers along the inside of the belt. It had to be there.

  Then he saw it, lying on the ground over towards the six o’clock shuttle. It must have worked its way free when he’d been wrestling with the pilot.

  By this time, a crowd had gathered at the rear of the main camp, eyeing the twisted carcass of the shuttle. All the while, others were flooding out to join them. Their attention naturally shifted across in his direction, prompting a chorus of clicking and buzzing as they surveyed the stranger in their midst. Their clicking now accompanied by spasmodic arm movements every bit as meaningful as the sounds they were making.

  They quickly began fanning out on two sides, as they attempted to take him in a pincer movement. Interestingly, no weapons were proffered, they were clearly intended on taking him alive.

  Webster’s natural urge was to retreat in the direction of the camp perimeter but he needed to factor in that detonator. It was three metres away to his immediate left. If he moved quickly enough…

  He briefly considered raising his hands as a sign of surrender in the hope of getting them to drop their guard but he quickly decided against it. With no concept of human body language, the gesture would prove meaningless.

  Instead, he dropped down onto all fours in a bid not to alarm them, and simply scurried across like a demented crab. That way he was able to quickly retrieve the detonator. Once he had hold of it, he came quickly upright, only to crash into a Da’al soldier which had been creeping up on him from the rear.

  Seeing it up close gave him a real fright and he spun around, attempting to push it away. But the thing had got a hold of his sleeve and so clung on, chattering wildly into his ear. For all his efforts, he found it impossible to shake the creature off but then he realised that he didn’t have to. Bringing up his elbow to buy himself some time, he switched his focus to the detonator.

  He twisted the detonator’s dial - effectively arming it – and then thumbed the button.