“Command lost comms with the station at approximately 0217 yesterday, September 19th,” Harris continued. “Six hours later, the automatic distress beacon triggered. Command has been attempting to make contact with the station, but has so far failed to get a response. So, it’s our job to head out there and find out what’s going on. Command are so far assuming that this is simply a technical malfunction and that the crew are fine, but there could be something very wrong. Fact is, we won’t know until we dock and board that station.”
He pressed another button and a picture of a man who looked to be in his mid-to-late 50s appeared on the screen. He had longish gray hair, dark brown eyes and a large angular nose. “This is Professor Ray Sharley. He heads up a team of eight at the station. From the limited information I have, I can say that they were working on various items of a technical and biological nature for the UNF. I can’t inform you about these items as it’s all classified, so your guess is as good as mine. To sum up, I don’t have a lot to tell you. We’re flying fairly blind on this one. Until we get there, we’ve got no idea what to expect. Could be nothing, could be something. Now, I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but are there any I can actually answer for you?”
Carrie watched as the men moved around slightly, taking it in. Brown eventually broke the silence.
“Captain, you say it’s a scientific station. Does this mean it’s filled with nutty professors or are there soldiers up there?”
A couple of the men chuckled.
“They are all members of the UNF, so they’ve been through the basic training, but they have scientific backgrounds. Their focus has always been on developing programs for the UNF, not fighting, not personal defense. So I guess my answer is, mainly nutty professors,” Harris advised. “Which means, if they are in trouble, they could be needing our help.”
“Captain, when you say biological,” the one named Louis spoke in a thick French accent, “I assume you mean biological weapons?”
Harris shrugged, “Well, your guess is as good as mine, Louis, but if I was a betting man …”
“So we’ll go in fully masked, no?” Louis continued.
“I will provide you with our plan of attack at another briefing when we are closer to docking, and when, hopefully, we’ll know a bit more. Rest assured, Command would not knowingly send us to a station with this level of classification if there could be something detrimental to our health. Regardless, I’m going to do everything I can to find out more about this, and I’ll have Smith and the flight deck continually searching the frequencies and trying to raise the station. So we’ll see what comes up. Any other questions?”
“Yes, sir,” McKinley spoke up. “I want to know why we were called in from leave to do this. If they’re assuming it’s just a technical difficulty, that is?”
“I guess they’re sending us in, in case it’s not,” Harris said matter-of-factly.
“It must be serious, McKinley,” Carter’s Afrikaans voice sounded deathly serious. “They’ve sent three big, strong recruits to protect us!”
Most of the soldiers burst out laughing, and Louis gave the South African a high-five. Doc looked around at the men and then back at Harris, whose face was a mask. Carrie glanced at the other two women. Packham sat there smirking at the joke, and Colt looked directly Harris, not showing any emotion whatsoever.
“Are there any other questions?” Harris continued.
There was silence.
“Good, then let’s move on shall we? Hunter, Bolkov, stand up!” the captain ordered.
The two soldiers stood, and Bolkov looked even bigger now he was standing. He appeared to be early 40s, with slicked back dark hair and a five o’clock shadow. Hunter was younger, maybe early 30s, about 5' 11" or so, with a fit physique, but something about his body language screamed that he knew it.
“New recruits, First Sergeant Hunter is our chief pilot, and Staff Sergeant Bolkov is our co-pilot.”
“Sergeant Packham, stand up!” Harris ordered.
She did so.
“Gentlemen,” Harris continued, looking at Hunter and Bolkov, “Sergeant Packham here, is an SD-A class pilot …”
Everyone eyed her curiously and she glanced back at them, unaffected.
“Sergeant Packham will be shadowing you throughout this mission,” Harris continued. “Whenever you are on the flight deck, she is to be present. You are responsible for her induction and ensuring she is up to speed with everything she needs to know as a pilot on this ship. Do you understand?”
Hunter and Bolkov exchanged a look. “Yes, sir,” they said in unison, although it lacked enthusiasm.
“Take a seat,” Harris ordered. They did. “First Sergeant Carter, Staff Sergeant Brown, stand up!”
They did so. Brown, like Bolkov, looked even bigger now he was standing. He appeared to be just shy of 6', with interesting black tattoos along his forearms. Carter, the South African, was about 5' 10" and stocky, his green eyes still finding humor in the situation.
“Corporal Colt, stand up!” Harris bellowed.
Colt did so, and the three standing soldiers eyed each other.
Harris looked at Colt. “First Sergeant Carter is in charge of the engine room. He, along with Staff Sergeant Brown, the ship’s engineer, liaise with our pilots on any issues that arise and perform regular tests on all the equipment, including the onboard weaponry.” He then turned to Brown and Carter. “Corporal Colt has strong technical skills and knows her way around electronics and hardwiring. She will work alongside your team. You two gentlemen will be in charge of Corporal Colt’s induction onto this ship. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” came their reply. Brown said it well enough, but Carter had a stupid grin and was almost laughing when he answered.
“Sergeant Louis, Private First Class Smith, stand up,” Harris called, while Colt, Brown and Carter sat down again.
Louis and Smith stood. Louis was about 5' 9", his torso bulging with those weight-lifter muscles. He had clean, dreadlocked hair to his shoulders, and bright white teeth that stood out against his midnight skin. Smith was taller than Louis, at about 5' 10" or so, and although muscular, was quite small body-wise, in comparison with the other soldiers. Carrie picked him to be barely twenty. He must be good at what he does to be selected so young.
“New recruits, these two men work alongside Doc, who is in charge of the ship’s medical and general stores. They take care of the meals here in the mess hall, and Private First Class Smith is also our comms–tech wiz. Sit down, gentlemen.”
Carrie looked at the back of McKinley’s head. They were the only two yet to be called.
“Second Lieutenant McKinley stand up,” Harris called and he did, albeit slowly, reluctantly. McKinley was tall, around the same height as the captain, with a decent build to match, although not pure bulk like Brown or Bolkov, his physique was more defined. His longish blond hair was tied back in a small ponytail that trailed just past the nape of his neck, and he wore a silver band, together with one woven of brown leather on his right wrist.
“Corporal Welles, stand up,” Harris ordered.
Carrie did so, aware that everyone was now looking at her. Everyone except McKinley, that is, who kept his back turned.
“Second Lieutenant McKinley is in charge of the weapons store on this ship.” Harris eyed her firmly. “He is also our resident sharpshooter.” He turned to McKinley. “Corporal Welles is a sharpshooter. She will shadow you in the weapons store and you will be in charge of her induction onto this ship. Do you understand?”
McKinley hesitated and then answered, “Yes, sir.” He didn’t turn around to make eye contact with Carrie, but instead took his seat.
“Good!” said Harris. “You know who everyone is and who you’re working with. Go now, in your teams, and make your final checks. I want this ship ready for departure, soldiers. Dismissed.” With that, Harris turned to the keypad, sent the screen back up into the cavity it came from, gath
ered his things, and left the room.
Everyone else slowly stood and started heading for the door to go to their posts. Not one of the men, Carrie noticed, looked in the direction of, or bothered to speak to, any of the women.
5
Learning to Fly
Harris sat down at the desk in his office. It was only one mission, so he figured it was best to just throw them in the deep end and let them get on with it. Besides, the ship needed readying. He knew the Dock Officers would already have the ship’s power cells charged, and have all the required cargo loaded, but the team had to double-check that all items were accounted for and undertake mechanical and electrical checks to ensure everything was in order. Their departure time was looming, and until they were on their way, he couldn’t relax.
He began logging into the Command portal for his own last check with his superiors before departing. Within moments the screen beeped and revealed both Colonel Isaack and Professor Martin awaiting his transmission.
“Captain Harris, how did the introduction of the new recruits go?” Isaack launched into conversation.
“It went,” Harris said plainly. “They’re busy preparing the ship for departure now, sir.”
“Good,” Isaack said swishing his fingers about on an e-file pane that was lying on the table in front of him. “Your pilots are being sent the exact coordinates and docking codes as we speak. They’ve been given enough fuel for a hyperflight there and back, which means you should reach the station in approximately 53 hours from departure.” Isaack looked up at Harris to see if he understood.
“Yes, sir,” he acknowledged.
“When you arrive at the station standard protocols apply, and I reiterate that the female recruits are not to board the Darwin without my authorization. We’re clear on that?” Isaack looked sternly down the screen at him.
“Yes, sir, I’m clear on the order,” Harris said, staring back at Isaack, “but I must say that I’m still quite unclear as to why they can’t board, sir. Their files looked decent.”
“As I mentioned earlier, Captain Harris—” Isaack began.
“Colonel Isaack, if I may answer this query for Captain Harris?” Professor Martin interjected, leaning forward across the table.
“Of course.” Isaack sat back in his seat.
“Captain, where possible we would like the female recruits to avoid any actual conflict. This improves our results for the test case, you understand?”
“So what exactly are you testing, then? That they can survive a flight out past Mars toward The Belt border?” Harris felt his tiredness starting to show through. “I’ve got news for you, Professor Martin, females can survive that, just as well as men can.”
Martin gave a humoring laugh. “Yes, we know that, Captain Harris, but we would like our records to be spotless nonetheless. If they avoid conflict, should there be any, then they are unharmed and our trial is successful. This makes the diversity people happy and is good for business, you understand. It’s what makes great PR.”
“Okay. Can I ask why you’ve given me three solid soldiers, on file at least, if all they’re going to do is just hang back? Why didn’t you send me three p-stars?”
“Well, captain,” Professor Martin pushed his glasses further up onto his nose, “Corporal Welles hasn’t been into space before, so technically she’s a, as you call it, a p-star, and Corporal Colt is still relatively inexperienced having only worked on cargo ships for four months.”
“That’s true,” Harris agreed, “but both have several years experience on Earth Duty. I would’ve thought that these women would be great examples to put through this test, particularly if there are unfriendlies awaiting us … should there be any conflict, of course,” he mimicked Martin.
Isaack sat forward again. “Captain Harris, the order is clear.”
“Colonel Isaack, I can’t speak for the other two women, but this wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Corporal Welles has an ex-colonel for a father, would it? A father who was not only a UNF Space Duty colonel, but an ‘Original’ to boot. Is she just here for the glory of her old man? For the UNF to leverage off?”
“Colonel Welles has been retired for some years now,” Isaack responded. “He no longer has any pull here at Command whatsoever.”
Martin nodded in agreement. “I can assure you that it is sheer coincidence that Colonel Welles’s daughter is on your ship. She was placed there because she ticked all the boxes we needed. She was merely in the right place at the right time, captain.”
Harris stared at the screen for a while mulling it over, but he bought what they said, despite his tiredness and irritability.
Isaack, sensing Harris was done, continued on. “You’ve got your flight plans and your ETA. We’ll hook up again right before you dock. Do you have any more questions?”
Harris shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Then have a good journey, captain.” Isaack signed off.
“Yes, good luck, captain,” Professor Martin joined in.
Harris gave a simple nod, logged out of the portal, and the screen slid back down into his desk. He stretched out in his chair, lengthening his back, and couldn’t help but note that his stomach still had that strange feeling within it.
*
Carrie relented, staring at McKinley. “What would you like me to do, lieutenant?”
She’d followed him out of the mess hall and along the corridor to the weapons store. Not once had he looked around to see if she was following, whether she knew where she was going or whether she was lost. He didn’t look at her and he certainly didn’t speak to her. At first, she decided to play his game. She followed him, hanging back enough to be out of his sight, to check whether or not he was going to attempt to look around at her. He didn’t. When they arrived at the store, he tapped a code into the panel, swiped his pass and the door opened. He went in, still not glancing behind him.
She’d followed him inside and looked around. The store was rectangular in shape, about 50' x 65', and had metal cases lining one wall and smaller wooden crates the other, with racks in the middle to stack the weapons on once they were readied. Along the back wall were cabinets that looked to hold bullasers, top-line vests that offered protection against both bullet and laserfire, and she also saw oxygen backpacks. She watched as McKinley took a scanner gun from a hook on the wall and headed over to one of the metal cases. He flicked the metal catches open, examined the laser-fire rifle inside, then closed the lid again. He scanned the barcode on the case, checked the reading on the scanner, then hit a button on the scanner’s keypad, which made it beep, then he moved onto the next crate. This was when Carrie decided enough was enough and asked him what he wanted her to do.
He looked over at her as if she’d just walked in, and stared for a moment. His eyes were a piercing blue, and coupled with his messy longish, blond hair, it gave him quite a fierce look. Carrie stared firmly back, though. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.
He chuckled to himself and shook his head. “I have to check that the weapons we have here are the ones Command told us they’ve packed,” he said, speaking to her like she was an annoying little sister and continuing on with his work.
“So, what would you like me to do?” she asked again in a firmer voice.
He looked at her, then walked over to the wall, picked up another scanner and tossed it at her. She caught it.
“Start with those crates over there,” he pointed to the wooden ones, “That’s the ammunition for the non-laser weapons, and battery packs for laser guns. You open the crate, check the type and the count, then scan the crate and see if the reading is the same, then you click ‘OK’. It feeds into a central computer that tallies it against what Command claim they’ve packed. I take it you know your ammo?” he asked condescendingly.
“I think I’ll be right,” she answered, then turned and walked over to one of the wooden crates. She noticed they were nailed shut, and looked around
for something to open them with. Spying a crowbar lying on top of one of the boxes, she collected it and moved back to the crate, jimmying it between the lid and the base. She pushed down on the crowbar, and a small gap appeared. She pushed again with all her weight and bounced it, forcing it open wider, then moved the crowbar along a little to widen another spot. She could feel McKinley watching her, as her face flushed warm with the strain.
He overtly sighed and chuckled again, then dropped his scanner and walked over. “Move,” he said, grabbing the crowbar from her hands, and bumping her out of the way with his elbow, as he took over. He gave one hard nudge and it popped open. He walked to the next crate, jimmied it, and popped it open. He walked onto the third and fourth and did the same. “That ought to start you off,” he said, throwing the crowbar on the floor by her feet and returning to his side of the room.
“I had it covered, thank you!” she told him.
McKinley gave a short, sharp laugh. “We don’t have all day, corporal.”
Carrie swallowed what she wanted to say, turned to the crate and opened it. It was filled with boxes of clips for a standard UNF-issue handgun. She counted the boxes and scanned the crate, then checked the reading. It was correct. She hit the “OK” button, closed the lid, and went onto the next one.
She checked the next few boxes quickly, spurred on by the need to prove herself. As soon as she finished the fourth box, McKinley walked back over and opened another five. He did them in no time at all; a slight jimmy, a hard nudge and then a loud: pop … pop … pop … pop. She was sure he was doing it superfast just to prove he could. She let him, though. She wasn’t going to react. When he was done he threw the crowbar on the ground and continued with his boxes. This went on until all the boxes were done. Not a word was spoken.
When he finished his cases, he keyed some data into the scanner, which beeped, and a touch screen panel on the wall near the door lit up. He walked over to it, and ran his eyes over it for a moment, then he made his way over to the bullasers and oxy tanks to begin a count on them. When he was done, he sat on a pile of crates and watched her, looking bored, while she finished the last of her boxes.
Darwin Page 7
