Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (7 page)

“Shit . . . a meteorite. And it’s getting bigger. It’s coming this way! The buggy! Back to the buggy! Go!”

Both astronauts ran, skipped and hopped the sixty metres of uneven terrain. Skips and hops that would have been impossible on Earth. Occasional pockets of coloured gas vented beneath their feet as the crisp frost of sulphur cracked. Unable to cope with the additional heat, their conditioning systems beeped unheeded warnings and sweat flowed freely down their faces. Within seconds they were aboard the small, four-wheeled, twin-seated vehicle. Matheson floored the accelerator pedal and the rear wheels spun. The fire ball was large and threatening as it sank lower in the sky, drawn by gravity. The buggy sped off at right angles to its trajectory while Aldrin tracked the vivid menace that now had the fiery tail of a comet – even in Io’s rarefied atmosphere there was enough friction to make it glow white hot. Its flight path became predictable.

“We’re not going to make it, Mike! Make a ninety degree turn! It’s our only hope.”

Matheson wrenched the small steering wheel to the right and the buggy slewed, trailing dust and ash. Their eyes widened in horror. Something in his subconscious made Matheson ease off on the throttle – it seemed suicidal to drive towards the thing. He quickly realised his folly and floored the pedal again. Stomachs tensed and hearts raced as the buggy bounced wildly over fatigued wheels.

Now they could hear it. The shockwave started as a distant rumble, but soon their helmets became ineffectual against the ever-increasing volume. Then it was like thunder and every cavity in their bodies resonated as the pressure wave built up – like standing too close to a railway line as a bullet train approached. Matheson held his course. With an altitude of barely 1000 feet, the white hot orb dropped lower and lower until the sizzling disc seemed to skim the planet’s surface; it raced towards the tiny vehicle and its huge bulk seethed. Visible now were pieces of flaming debris that broke off and scattered – most impacting on the surface and raising spiralling clouds of dust and ash and releasing bursting geysers of yellow, green and orange gas. They felt the crushing, debilitating force on them; it pressed on their bodies, squeezing them into their seats. They gasped for breath. Then the shockwave engulfed them. There was pain. Excruciating pain. The heat, the thunder, the shuddering, their throbbing bodies, the light, a riot in hell . . . and then it was directly over them. The massive disturbance pummelled them. The buggy slewed and skidded as Matheson lost control.

It passed. Heightened senses subsided. Matheson pulled the buggy around to complete a full turn and then slammed on the brakes. They did not immediately feel the relief because a long flaming tail trailed the object for hundreds of metres. The fizzing brilliance they watched with dumb struck awe as it flew towards the hills.

The close proximity caused the surface of the moon to contort and the brittle, overlying chemical frost simply peeled off and churned like swirling eddies of sand beneath a hovering helicopter. And then the explosion. Never had they seen such a catastrophe. The object hurtled away from them for two or three kilometres. It bounced and, from the point of impact, made a shallow channel that continued as a gouge and finished as a chasm. Minutes later a kind of stillness settled, belied by the whole mess that smouldered and smoked with insignificant explosions, effervescing sparks and debris plumes, like expensive fireworks on a special occasion. There was rubble and shards and ruin.

Totally oblivious to his heat-stressed body and his suit’s overwhelmed conditioning system and the red warning light on his wrist-mounted control panel, Matheson drove slowly and then, abruptly, stopped.

“No! Please no! If there’s a God, no!” Mike cried, his despair causing Aldrin to stare at the carnage.

Mere seconds appeared to be minutes, and those minutes became hours as both men sat in a silence of eternity. Sweat trickled down their brows and dripped from their noses. Thirty metres away and a little to their left a red flame fringed with blue fired off from a twisted piece of silvery tubing. A distorted section of latticed gantry lay half-embedded in the ash and the sand. Matheson looked to his right and drove forward slowly. He felt his hands trembling. He lined up the buggy with the laser-straight trench – now the gateway to a scrapyard – and stopped with the wheels of the vehicle on its edge. Like a huge furrow ploughed by a giant they were made dwarf-like by it. The scale of it all, the brokenness, and in the distance the trench slewed to the right, as if the plough had come across bedrock and diverted. And there, at its end, a contorted mass burned.

Both men thought it but dared not say, for they already knew they were as good as dead. They saw a large curved piece of metal alloy, its edges twisted violently and jagged. On it, clearly visible through the scorching, were the letters:

H E R

Matheson turned slowly and looked back in the direction that they had come. Tyre tracks indicated their stressed, haphazard journey. The landing module was too small and too distant to be seen, but nevertheless Matheson scanned the horizon for it. He thought about the inside of it. That capsule of life: functional but fragile, with a futile future. Despite the computers, the systems, the computations, the integration, protection and opportunity, its promise was only temporary solace. The Lander was helpless, like a baby without its mother.

So how would it come? As heat exhaustion, oxygen starvation, dehydration? Matheson bowed his head as his mind replayed his life, which he summed up in an instant: frail and seemingly pointless. He was not aware of Aldrin climbing from his seat, who then walked and frequently stumbled towards a pile of smouldering debris as if he recognised something in it as personal. Their intercom crackled for a time with heavy atmospheric static and the rumble of another distant volcano erupting seemed threatening, like the gathering menace of an approaching thunderstorm. This and the surrounding wreckage – which sporadically burst into flames as gas pockets vented – muted Matheson’s curiosity. He watched Aldrin’s haphazard progress – the lone figure walked now as if he was drunk, staggering, with his arms hanging lifelessly by his sides. Matheson could have called him back as there was no change in their communication status. But there was no reason to; there was no point in warning his friend.

Presently and with the debilitating disbelief of a betrayed man, Matheson dragged himself from the buggy. He stood by it on the grey and yellow ash and the patterned soles of his boots made deep impressions. Footprints; for a time man had been here. He arched his back and gazed up at the hazy sky that was heavy with acid – there would be no succour from there. Then, with both hands, Matheson felt for the metal rings that linked his bulky spherical helmet to his suit. He slid his fingers around the smooth curves until each hand hovered over the release clips. Straining his neck, he managed to get a finger beneath the left-hand clip and pulled it up and turned it, releasing it. Instantly, a red light illuminated on his wrist-mounted suit-conditioning control panel. He looked up, slowly, unaffected, and spent two or three thoughtful minutes watching his buddy who was quite distant by now. The sweat that had run from his temples and down his cheeks had all but dried and he could taste salt on his lips.

Aldrin meanwhile had turned towards a large section of wreckage that was half-embedded in the towering left-hand wall of the trench. It protruded precariously and a twisted boom of former gantry with a broken end reached out for the other side, arching, like a half-constructed bridge across a wide valley. It loomed above Aldrin as he approached it. Matheson watched him pause momentarily and then disappear. Seconds later an explosion rocked the charred carcass of superstructure, to be quickly followed by another and the ensuing wall of flames clearly denied any retreat even if second thoughts had turned Aldrin’s intention.

Matheson shook his head. He looked down at the marks his boots had made in the dust and then up again at his friend’s blazing mausoleum.
Perhaps it was fitting,
he thought,
like a Viking
. Then an image of Carol’s face filled Matheson’s mind’s eye. She smiled at him and blew a kiss and then gestured for him to follow her; stars backlit her complexion. Jupiter, massive, with its rings of colour, turned slowly before him. He supported himself with a hand on the buggy and stretched up to feel the full extent of the great planet.
No one has seen what I am seeing,
he thought. Carol beckoned again – sweetly and lovingly, as on that ‘night’ in her cabin when Saturn passed by. He tightened his lips subconsciously as if to kiss her back and then reached up and found the other retaining clip with his right hand and, with some effort, flipped it open. A second red light illuminated on the control panel and began flashing incessantly and this time an aural warning complained loudly of his reckless stupidity. Having eyes only for Carol, he paid the warnings no heed. Instead, and with a hand on each side of his helmet, he rotated it.

CHAPTER 2

Recall

Moon base Andromeda – the day before Christmas 2054
18:07 Lunar Corrected Time

“Hello. Unit one zero three. Rachel here.”

“Doctor Rachel Reece?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Good! It’s Peter Rothschild. How are you?”

“Why are you calling, Peter? Please, of all nights, not tonight.”

“Is Richard there?”

“Can’t you leave it? Just another day or two. Please! It’s Christmas Eve for God’s sake.”

“Rachel, I’m sorry. You know it’s not me; I’d rather be at home too. Something’s come up. It’s serious. The repercussions . . . Is he there, Rachel?”

“Actually, no, I don’t know where he is, not exactly. He’s not back from the office. Maybe he hasn’t landed yet.” Rachel Reece sighed. “I thought this was all over, Peter. We’ve not heard from the department for almost two years, not since he assumed command of the Wing – he’s enjoying the job. Why don’t you just find someone else?”

“He landed over an hour ago, Rachel, I checked. And there’s no answer from his office.”

“Then he must be on his way. Perhaps he’s stopped to share a drink with friends? That’s what one does at Christmas time . . . isn’t it?”

“Rachel,
please
. This job is difficult enough without . . . When is a recall convenient? You tell me? Anyway, I don’t dictate timings. I’d prefer to be with my family too, and not here in the city, I can tell you. He’s the one who did the degree in Hieroglyphics and Cryptography. He’s the one who’s receiving funding for his doctorate from the department. If he’d wanted to drop it, he should have done so four years ago.” Rothschild paused and his tone softened. “Rachel, listen, like it or not, Richard
is
our resident expert in these matters; he’s up there with the best of them. And regarding the origin of the Kalahari crystals, he’s the world authority. What’s more, after his illness, Professor Mubarakar is too frail to see anybody, although he always makes an exception for Richard. It’s very important Rachel. We have a major catastrophe on our hands. So please, tell me if you know where he is.”

Rachel hesitated; she knew that there was no point in being difficult.
Her disappointment at not being first on Richard’s list mustn’t make her feel rejected
, she thought, but the realisation of Christmas alone made her grimace. “I expect he’s with the squadron pilots and the ops staff, Peter, enjoying some goodwill for once. Try Lieutenant Stewart Grant’s unit – number two, twelve. Remember, I haven’t seen much of him for weeks, so don’t you think he’s going anywhere tonight – not for a moment!”

“A ferry flight, sir . . . no passengers, no cargo, now that
is
unusual. I thought it was all about saving fuel. First that new annual award for the most fuel-efficient return sector to Earth, and now we fly there empty – doesn’t make sense!”

Commander Richard James Reece looked across the flight deck at his young co-pilot. By necessity, it was a dimly lit environment and outside the myriad of reflective white specks shimmering against the consuming blackness of unending space contributed little to the effect. On the instrument panel a number of lights flashed – green, amber and some red – and on a central computer screen schematic layouts of the ship’s engineering systems flipped every few seconds. All the while, there was the muted background hum of electronics. Richard Reece felt the momentary increase in cabin pressure on his eardrums as the external door closed and the seals inflated. In response, three red lights on the panel turned green.

“It is about fuel, Yannick, and don’t think otherwise,” Richard said, in an explanatory tone. A smile jabbed his lips. “But I’m needed in London, urgently apparently, and an S2 is the quickest way – indeed, the only way – of getting to Earth tonight. Evidently I’m the exception, it seems. Now, run the checklist and call for start. The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back. This terminal will re-open at seven tomorrow morning. My wife will be fuming, but at least we will be in time to open our presents . . .”

“Aye aye, sir. Commencing pre-flight checklist.”

“I’m on my way, Peter. In your electric Jaguar – a ‘Double X’ model. It’s nice, very impressive I must say. Clearly you’re moving up in the world.”

“Yes, and had you stayed in London after your marriage and taken up the appointment you were offered, you would probably have one too.”

“Oh, come on, not that one again – after what, four years? I’m a pilot, Peter, remember . . . not a pen-pusher. Anyway, this is the last place I’d like to work, fancy job or not.” Richard grimaced as he looked out through the vehicle’s dark-tinted windows and scanned the passing buildings. People hurried along the walkway, much as always in town, although he thought they were fewer in number and everyone here had the ubiquitous umbrella. He stretched his neck to look up to the skyline, which was dank and dismal with a low, opaque cloud base that engulfed the tallest buildings; they simply disappeared into the gloom as if decapitated. Droplets of water ran down the glass.
The depressing grey of an early morning here on planet Earth,
he thought,
who needs it?
He breathed in deeply and shook his head despondently. “Albeit only a shuttle pilot,” he whispered to himself. But Peter Rothschild picked it up over the intercom.

“What’s that, Richard?”

Richard was wrested from his thoughts. “Oh, um, I think London’s looking shabby. I suppose it’s the rain – the council can’t get anything done. Now, where am I going and what’s the rush?”

“The driver knows, so you don’t need to worry – but I suppose you will anyway . . .
Whitehall
! There’s an emergency cabinet meeting at eleven o’clock this morning; the Prime Minister’s chairing it. Plus a scrambled digital relay with our allies. Washington, Beijing, Moscow, Strasbourg, Bangkok, the ISSF cabinet and others – highest security level. We have suffered a setback and that’s putting it mildly. Before that, at nine, there is a key-brief: scientific, energy, threat, risk assessment and a few other topics on the agenda. The PM is expecting me to correlate the information and present him with our recommendations by ten-thirty at the latest. Are you using an earpiece or hands-free?”

“I’m on speaker!”

“Where are you now?”

“Kennington Oval, passing the Palace of Saudia – shame about the cricket ground . . . ? Vauxhall Bridge next, and then Millbank.”

“No, not quite. There’s some activity by the river we want to avoid. You are routed through Marsham Street and Great Smith Street. Preparations are in hand. You’ll get a full brief soon enough. I’ll see you in twenty minutes. If I can I’ll meet you at the door, otherwise you will be escorted to my office. Security is high, so be prepared.”