Omega

Everyone bulky in the new NBC snowsuits with hoods that enveloped their helmets; respirators hung at their necks. The squad was part of the multinational Special Operations Corps, the cream of a rigorous selection programme.

They descended a frozen gully and made a steep ascent. The Spectre coped effortlessly with the incline. The vehicle’s bolt-on panels meant that it could be adapted to a variety of combat roles.

Near the brow of the ridge, with the display flashing an urgent red to indicate their proximity to the target, van Oost ordered Owain to pull over.

The major was already zipping up his respirator. A blast of snowy air swept into the cabin as he clambered out. Owain caught a stench of frozen mud and rotten vegetation before he fitted his own mask. It was early March, the temperature outside ten below zero, the sky oppressively grey.

Like a slim-line polar bear with a crooked black snout, van Oost scrambled through the snow. On the brow of the ridge he unhooked his binoculars and pressed them against his eyepieces. At this point the familiar hiss of Owen’s satellite link died, as did the dashboard screen.

Silence, expectation, nothing. The men in the back making brittle jokes behind their respirators, Sabrioglu saying that they’d forgotten to put a coin in the meter, Benkis telling Vassall that he should climb up on the roof and thump the dish with a hammer. Vassall, a corporal, stonily silent at first, then warning that rebel groups could rig up signal jammers from little more than an UHF generator and a plastic pipe wrapped with copper wire.

The major returned, unzipping his mask as soon as he was inside.

“Looks like an old army base,” he told e blast oone. “It’s surrounded by trees so I can’t get a good view. But something tells me it’s active.”

“The link’s just gone down,” Owain informed him.

Van Oost peered at the blank screen and nibbled on his damp moustache. He was a sandy-haired man with a lived-in face that made him look ten years older than he was.

“Fuck it,” he said at last. “All right, everybody out. Maybe one of you has better eyes than me.”

Securely packaged in his suit, Owain followed the others through the snow. The latest issue automatic rifles were slung over their backs: Heckler & Koch PF-1s that fired 4.7mm caseless cartridges. Already Owain’s head was filling up with a swampy smog of recycled breath and acrid sterilising vapours.

The NGZ had been relatively quiet for the past decade. Evacuated by both sides in the late eighties when Alliance counter-offensives left vast areas polluted, it had become a buffer zone and a barren sanctuary for all sorts of outcast groups.

Beyond the rise was a compact area of pinewoods with a rectangle cut out of its middle. Owain’s binoculars revealed a large complex with roads leading into it from the south and east. Flat-topped buildings were arranged around what looked like a parade ground.

“What do you think, captain?” van Oost asked him.

“Hard to say. I’d guess a base. But there’s no sign it’s being used.”

“Look further east.”

Owain shifted his field of vision, following the easterly road through the trees. The extensive plain beyond the whiteness was overlaid with darker rectilinear areas.

“See them?” the major prompted.

“I see something.”

“Something’s been assembled there.”

“How about we launch a drone to take a closer look?” Owain suggested.

“The link’s out,” said another voice. Vassall.

“We can do it by line-of-sight,” Owain said. “Guide it in from the wagon. The terrain’s favourable.”

From the ridge the ground sloped straight down towards the base. It was the perfect vantage point for an overfly.

“We bring the wagon up far enough to deploy the dish. Should be plain sailing.”

Vassall made a sceptical sound. “Assuming some sharp-eyed guard down there doesn’t notice the wagon sitting up here in plain sight.”

The major rounded on him. “When I want your opinion, corporal, I’ll ask for it. And expect it to be constructive.” He turned back to Owain. “Fetch the wagon.”

The radio dish was mounted in a cavity at the rear of the vehicle. Owain reversed the Spectre up the slope until its back end rose above the ridge. He deployed the dish, angling it until it was pointing towards the base.

Vassall opened a metal case on the snow. Inside were six finger-length chrome cylinders. He removed one and unfolded its silver wings before setting it down on a flat rock.

The drones, miniature reconnaissance aircraft with head-mounted cameras, resembled robotic dragonflies. They were powered by lithium batteries in their abdomens.

Vassall tapped instructions into the case’s keyboard. It screen flashed on. The corporal looked up at van Oost.

“Get on with it,” the major told him sharply.

The drone’s wings began vibrating, giving off a low electronic buzz. It lurched into the air and veered off towards the base.

Owain, hanging out the wagon’s window, swung back into his seat and flipped up a flat screen from the dashboard.