An Alien Rescue (22 page)

“If you find a horse, Scott would like to know,” Phyllis retorted in a flash.

Both Scott and Phyllis broke down with laughter and tears. They thought their sides would burst wide open with the strength of the laughter as their hilarity broke all recent records.

Belinda was speechless. She ran the question through her mind, of asking if there might be something to eat and failing to find anything comical about it. And what was that about a horse? She wondered with a quizzical look.

The pair continued laugh
ing, hands pressing on their bellies and unable to look at Belinda without the hilarity restarting its cycle. Belinda decided to wait until they calmed down before asking any more questions. It was more than obvious they couldn’t control their emotions at that time. However, the laughter was contagious and she released more than just a passing smile at the humorous scene.

“A flaming
horse
?” Scott said giggling. “For Christ’s sake, Phyllis, you’re a real laugh. You really are.”

It was a while until the laughter ceased, although the beaming smiles still showed they were tickled by the humour of it all.

“So,” he finally managed to ask, but with a certain amount of difficulty and not with a straight face. “What’s the current situation?”

Phyllis sat upright while attempting to sort herself out, then replied, “Should we attempt to land at any stations we will be caught. They have
each been designated as closed and secure.”

That statement wiped the smile from Scott’s face as he tried to imagine a way out of their predicament. What he had learned from his experiences was the Greys were predictable in their behaviour and that could be their Achilles’ heel.

“The silly-buggers have no common sense so there has to be a way out of this. They wouldn’t recognise they were about to be hit by an express train until it ran over them,” he added with wit.

Belinda and Phyllis looked at each other in confusion. What did express trains have to do with all of this? In addition, how could the reference to a method of antiquated transport help them in their present situation? They quizzed each other by the look on their faces. They didn’t want him to know what they were thinking.

“All stations are closed? Is that what you said, Phyllis?

Phyllis was about to reply with a, yes, but hesitated as the answer wasn’t quite accurate. She reconsidered what she was about to say, and then replied, “All stations where we might arrive at are closed.”

He gave her answer a moment’s thought, then blurted with a shout, “A-friggen-ha! We’ve got the stupid Grey-coloured bastards right where we want ‘em. They’re nothing better than a bunch of wet-behind-the-ear kids on a Sunday jamboree singing silly bloody happy-clappy songs and burning marshmallows over a half-dead campfire!”

Both the women stood quite still
at his remark. They hadn’t heard this version of Earth-talk before and it stopped them dead in their tracks. They wouldn’t say another word until they either worked out the hidden meaning behind his latest outburst or decided Scott had definitely blown an internal set of synaptic fuses.

He was aware of the staring faces and sudden silence from both his companions, before recalling his confusing words. “Oh shit, I’m awfully sorry. I still sometimes express myself in ways you will never understand.” He added a little giggle at the end as if to say he wasn’t really sorry at all.

“What I meant to say was… and to put it in simple terms... I know
how
we can escape!”

The Base Commander’s chair was the type that swivelled
a full three hundred and sixty degrees, its tapered base being part of the room’s floor. It enabled the seated individual to interact with the surrounding operatives while viewing each of their monitors. This seat was at the hub of the Control Room and all could see it. The newly self-appointed Base Commander viewed the entire goings-on, listening to the incoming messages while directing operations. His wrinkled flesh seemed to relax into an even more corrugated pattern as he felt sure his plan to capture the humans was foolproof and in motion. His glossy black eyes swept the monitors for evidence of the intruders, hoping to catch the first glimpse of the fleeing felons. His predecessor’s disappearance may have confused the issue for a while, but it suited him to believe the submersible was lost. The thoughts of sending a search party never occurred to him, the empty seat and position of Base Commander felt extremely comfortable and fitting.

On Scott’s orders, Phyllis and Belinda worked together and forced the submersible to go deeper still. He couldn’t be sure if there were any surface vessels around and wasn’t prepared to chance being close to the surface in case there were. He’d watched many war movies at home, where a submarine’s Captain nearly always screwed-up by taking silly and ridiculous risks. Scott would always call them
silly names for being so stupid, convinced he wouldn’t make the same incompetent and fatal errors should he find himself in a similar position. He never imagined he would, of course. He occasionally saw himself in a,
Walter Mitty
type character role, where he would save the day by being awfully clever and extremely brave, instead of the clowns who regularly fucked-up big time in a movie. He knew it was a fantasy thing but always hoped he might get his day to prove himself. He hadn’t, however, seen himself making life or death decisions inside planet Mars, accompanied by two gorgeous women, both dressed in blue suits that showed their shapely bums and curvaceous figures.
Walter bloody Mitty, eat yer flaming heart out!
He thought smugly as the vessel dived while following a zigzag course to avoid detection... and maybe depth charges or homing torpedoes. He had seen it all on the big wide screen and he wasn’t going to fall prey to any stupid Grey’s tactics.

His plan was to return to their station of departure, going somewhere the Greys had probably never considered. He believed the Greys would be certain that the three of them would head for an alternative exit, attempting to find another route to safety. Scott had to shake his head in disbelief as he thought about the supposedly advanced species who couldn’t figure out the simplest of facts.

Belinda and Phyllis considered his plan, giving it their complete attention. They weren’t sure if it would work when he first explained his reasoning behind his decision, that, ‘
The Greys weren’t the cleverest buggers this side of the universe
’. Their smiles hid any doubts they may have had, but they sided with him after carefully thinking it through. His logic was sensible and they were willing to put it to the test. It was their best chance for escape and survival, they knew.

Scott rubbed the stubble on his chin, reminding him
self how long he had been on the move.

“I could still eat a flaming horse, you know,” he said looking at Phyllis. “And don’t you start the hysterical laughter thing again, for Christ’s sake. I don’t think my sides could take the strain.”

Phyllis let loose a girly giggle while Belinda had to ask what was so funny about a horse.

“I’ll explain it another time,” he said, knowing it would give her something else to think about for the time being.

“A horse?” Belinda repeated before shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. She missed her companions smiling at each other for the humorous confusion they were causing.

“The station is directly ahead of us and the seabed is rising rapidly. We must begin our ascent or we’ll hit submerged rocks,” reported Belinda with concern in her voice.

“Stop engines,” ordered Scott, feeling he was in charge of a wartime sub, with the possibility of danger above the waves, which indeed there might well be.

Belinda stopped the submersible, as directed, but the order wasn’t quite what she expected. They had a motor, a single magnetic-ion resonance unit with two separate quadrangle jets for propulsion, so what was it with the ‘
Stop engines
’ instruction, she wondered. She looked at Phyllis for an answer, but only received a smile.

“Is there a periscope I can use to look
across the surface?” he asked.

“What… is a periscope?” Belinda asked back with uncertainty.

Phyllis got in with an answer first, explaining the use of optical reflectors and lenses to look above the waves from below.

“Oh,” Belinda said as she imagined such a device. “It sounds very basic, does it work?”

“Yep,” he replied. “And we could do with one
right now
.”

Phyllis nudged Belinda with an elbow, indicating a panel built into the edge of the seat where she sat. The rotary switches, she explained, were for sweeping the entire area around them, horizontally, over, above and below.

Scott expected to hear a sonar ping at any time, ready to give the wartime command of, ‘
Dive-dive-dive!’

Phyllis thought she heard the three words in Scott’s thoughts, all repeated in quick succession. She could not understand how there might be an echo within thoughts, unless he really did think the words.

“Should I say the word,
Dive,
you must take this vessel down as quickly as it’ll go while also turning in a different direction. It will be because there’s something above us that we’d rather not see or be seen by. Are you both clear on that?”

Phyllis realised where the words had come from. He had been preparing himself for events that might happen when they begin to surface.

“Yes,” Belinda answered, followed by another from Phyllis.

“Stand by to surface.”

The ship’s compliment of officers was once again instructed to attend a briefing in the Ward Room, regardless of any shift they were on or off. It was a tight squeeze to get everyone in as it was an out-of-the-ordinary sort of gathering. Normally, while some were on duty, others would be sleeping in their quarters; hence, there would be adequate amounts of room to accommodate the operational officers who could attend. But present circumstances dictated all should know the up-to-date Intel reports. The Skipper of the boat was switched-on enough to make certain the off-duty officers, who had been called from their beds, were given the most comfortable seats nearest the front, those usually reserved for VIP’s or the highest ranks. He couldn’t help but smile at the sullen faces of the officers who would otherwise have been in their bunks. Their long drawn faces with tired expressions made them look like some cartoon caricatures and apologised to them on a personal level. However, he assured them, it was essential that all commissioned officers be in attendance to hear what was about to be disclosed. To be told what was discussed by another wasn’t good or reliable enough, he insisted. The Skipper viewed the blank and drawn faces, wishing he could also be sleeping. He felt just as tired.

“Intel’ has been updated by our stateside cousins, whereupon, there have been numerous reports of UFO sightings around these parts for many past decades. Therefore, as we are in the front line, so to speak, we are instructed to scour this area with a fine toothcomb. In other words, gentlemen, we don’t just sit around waiting for something to happen, we are here to
make
something happen. And if something does, we record it, note it, and try to catch it!”

The drawn faces came alive and whispered conversations sprang up between them.

“In addition to these instructions, our silent approach is over. Passive sonar is to be reactivated, with our position regularly reported to Base HQ, in accordance with GPS. We’re hoping the radar absorbing tiles will fool anything around here to believe we aren’t here, if you follow me? Surfacing is forbidden, so anything of interest on the surface is to be initially recorded with frequent perishots. If there is enough evidence of something unusual enough to warrant it, we shall surface immediately.”

The skipper turned over his notes, reading the next and last page, before closing his red folder. He ended the briefing by saying, “The cold-war might be over in the newspapers, but it seems there are spy satellites homing in on our position from all corners of space. There are countries out there who would like to know what we are up to, wondering what the hell is going on in this small part of the Atlantic Ocean. Gentlemen, it is up to us to contain any information we accumulate, to ensure it stays confidential and hopefully secret, unless the powers at be dictate otherwise, of course. Finally, anything in writing or print regarding this mission does not leave this boat … Period! Anyone found contravening the aforementioned orders
will
be subject to the strictest disciplinary proceedings known to man or god himself.
You, have been warned
, so warn your respective ratings too. Thank you, gentlemen, I trust you’ll have a good day, and
bonne nuit
, to those whose sleep pattern has been disrupted.”

Time had passed without any reports of the humans’ whereabouts. No station had been used as a disembarkation point or place to steal ashore from the stolen vessel. The clones sat motionless in front of flickering screens, awaiting commands or instructions. The commander wished there was another with which he could converse with on daily functions and local news. This commander wasn’t like the others, in that he appeared to have a mind of his own. He couldn’t be cajoled with or manipulated by threats from anxious superiors. No! He was a singular individual who could think for himself and for the good of the Empire. This being was destined to go far, but for the moment was restricted to security and the capture of human renegades. He would have to content himself with this scenario for the time being, until he could ascertain himself as a more than worthy being in line with the running of the Empire. He carefully watched the monitors as they flicked from one station to another in rapid succession while listening to the high-pitched tone of verbal communication between the clones. Like the threesome, they had reverted to speech mode for the same reason.

Slight waves and ripples gave way to a more aggressive wake as the submersible appeared. The quiet surface was broken by the sound and splash of a whooshing breaker as a black conning tower broke clear. With a loud clang, its hatch flew open, the clanging echo returning a moment later. A single head appeared, twisting around to see if the coast was clear, telling out of sight individuals everything looked safe. Once the three had disembarked, ensuring the coast
was
clear; Scott gave the unexpected order to scuttle the vessel.

Belinda and Phyllis looked at each other in complete dismay. Should his instructions be carried out they knew they would be stranded. There would be no other means of escape without the submersible. He expected their confused looks and was ready to respond.

“If they cannot locate this vessel they won’t know where to look for us. By sinking it, we don’t just hide it; we evade their hunt by hiding
ourselves
. Without the evidence of our vessel, they will not know where we actually are, and that has to be a great advantage. Is it not?”

Both women look
ed to each other, asking and answering each other’s questions and concerns by hidden whispers and facial activity. As the individual in charge of the operation, Belinda felt it was her responsibility to speak for both of them, so replied.

“We understand what you are saying, Scott. But it could be seen as suicide to deliberately destroy a valuable piece of equipment that could very well be our only hope of salvation. However, having considered your idea in detail, we agree there is an enormous benefit to ridding ourselves of the unit, even though it has served us well. I personally hope the loss gets someone
into serious trouble - preferably a Grey!”

With that unusual sneering remark, Scott released a huge smile, adding, “Let’s hope it gets a lot of Greys into a bath of very hot water. Am I right girls?”

Once more, they were confused and looked to the other in disbelief. Only to say they were as confused as ever by his strange references to a bath full of heated water. Why he should want others to get into hot water didn’t make much sense, unless he intended to give them a scalding bath in order to burn them?

“Perhaps it’s Earthly humour again,” Phyllis said loudly to Belinda, adding a shrug of her shoulders. Both were seen to shake their heads in wonder.

“Mmm,” Scott hummed to himself in deep thought while watching the confused goings on between them. He really meant to use ordinary words to describe what he meant, but a lifetime of slang, verse and some pretty foul language meant he couldn’t just jump from his ordinary everyday method of speech to one of political and alien correctness.

“I’ve done it again, I know. When I said, ‘Very hot water’, I simply meant a whole lot of trouble. I’ll try
even harder to stop using silly phrases and slang in my sentences. Having to explain why I’m confusing you is becoming awfully tiring, so should I do it again please tell me straight away.”