by Mark Anson
‘You little shit! Did you slip it to me in a drink?’
Another shake.
‘How then?’
Coombes’s mouth moved soundlessly behind his visor, but Clare couldn’t hear the words.
‘Never mind. I don’t do drugs, do you understand?’
A nod.
‘I said, I don’t do drugs, do you understand!’ she yelled, and shook his legs. His position on the rail slipped, and he nodded frantically, tears in his eyes.
‘Did you take any pictures?’
A shake of the head.
‘Did you make a movie?’
Another shake, more vigorous this time.
‘Because if I thought you’d got any souvenirs of our night together, I’d let go of you right now, do you hear?’
The head shaking became frantic.
‘You had your nasty little way with me, you did me in the ass, and you had to drug me to do it!’
His arms flailed about in the screaming wind.
‘If you ever come near me again, or if I catch you trying that with anyone else, I’m reporting you to the captain, do you understand?’
Please pull me in, his mouth said behind the mask. She could see his face twisting, see the tears. For some reason, seeing him so helpless filled her with an insane rage, as if a dark flame had ignited in her heart, and almost without conscious thought, she started pulling his legs off the rail. Coombes thrashed about wildly in the red flashes of light, his silent screams lost on the wind. One leg came free, and she was prising the other one up. He slipped backwards on the rail. Just a little more …
Then the anger passed, blown away on the wind, and she saw him for what he was, a creature beneath her contempt, clinging on to his pathetic life from the rail. She was back in control again, not the red mist of her mindless rage. She held him there, on the brink of being torn off the rail, for a few more moments, and then took a deep breath, reached out and started to haul him in. She got his body sideways over the guardrail, which he clung on to in panic. She tore his hands and legs off the rail and let him fall onto the latticework deck, where he lay moaning. He looked up at her, and Clare kicked him, as hard as she could, in the stomach.
‘Stay away from me, do you hear?’ She took one last glance at the pathetic thing on the floor and turned to go, but just as she did, his voice rang out suddenly, muffled and broken by sobbing:
‘I’ve got – friends here. They won’t like – what you’ve done.’
Clare advanced on him again. ‘Are you threatening me? You want to go out there again?’ Coombes scrabbled to get away from her, away from the guardrail, backing towards the airlock on the other side of the fantail.
‘You’re not going to get away with this,’ his voice came from the darkness between the red flashes of light, ‘You’re going to be sorry you did this to me!’
‘I’ll take my chances, you little shit,’ she said, and walked away, back to the airlock they had come from. As the door slid shut and the ship’s air roared in around her, she was overcome by trembling. She shook all over, and she could barely get the facemask off with her trembling hands. She felt as weak as a kitten.
She tried to think about the lesson she had taught him, how he wouldn’t dare come near her again, but the truth was that she was badly worried. She had made a serious mistake in planning her revenge on Coombes.
She hadn’t considered the possibility that whoever was protecting Coombes, might come after her.
PART III
Storm Front
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The morning after Clare had taken her revenge on Coombes in the darkness at the back of the ship, Colonel Donaldson was in the main control room, surveying the sky ahead. He normally sat in the captain’s chair, in the centre of the room, but today he stood by one of the giant windows, where he had a clear view of the great sweep of sky around them.
A Frigate roared past overhead, screened from his view by the long nose ramp of the carrier that extended ahead of the control room. After a few moments, he saw it appear in the sky to their right as it turned onto its assigned course and climbed away.
‘Sir, you have a priority message from USAC Command.’ The communications officer interrupted his thoughts.
‘Oh. Er, put it through to my command seat.’ He started to walk back to his elevated seat by the chart table.
‘Sir, it’s coded Priority, AA-1. Your eyes only.’ The communications officer’s voice was professionally neutral, but this was exceptional; messages like this were usually only issued in a crisis, or if national security was at stake.
‘I’ll take it in my day cabin. Yates, your aircraft.’
‘My aircraft, sir.’
Donaldson’s curiosity increased as he closed the connecting door between the control room and his day cabin. He wasn’t aware of any developing emergencies, certainly not out here in the inner planets. He knew about the trouble with the Denver’s reactor, but an unscheduled return to Earth was hardly an emergency.
He sat down behind his desk, his back to the window behind him. He tapped his personal passcode into the desk console, and then his command passcode to decrypt the call.
On the screen, the seal of the US Astronautics Corps materialised behind the COMMAND CONFIDENTIAL logo. He was reminded of the security level of the communication, and slid his hand to the door controls. There was a series of muffled clunks as the doors to the adjoining rooms and the corridor locked.
The screen faded to reveal the distinguished features of Major General Wesley, sitting at his desk, his thin face grave and unreadable. The flag of the United States stood in the corner of the room behind him. Wesley was the Deputy Chief of Staff; whatever it was, it was serious.
‘Good morning Colonel.’ The general only paused for a moment; with the current ten-minute round-trip time delay between Earth and Venus, a normal conversation would have been impossible. ‘This is a confidential briefing and no other participants are permitted. If you have not already done so, would you please pause this message, clear the room and lock the door.’
The general waited for a moment, and leaned closer on the screen.
‘Colonel Donaldson, as you know the US Astronautics Corps have been working with the Federal Space and Aviation Administration on the investigation into the fatal accident that took place on June 14 this year, involving a Frigate Two Hundred landing on the USSV Langley, causing the death of the pilot, First Lieutenant Keller.’
A sudden jolt of fear ran through Donaldson’s body. So this communication, this priority, eyes only communication, wasn’t about some issue of national security, but was about the accident. His mind was already racing ahead.
‘As you are aware, this investigation was facilitated by a visit to the Langley earlier this year by a specialist team led by Lieutenant Colonel Saffman, and an interim factual report issued. Some unexpected issues have emerged during the preparation of the initial findings report, however, that have caused the FSAA to raise concerns over certain aspects of our investigation. The details of these concerns will be sent to you within the next few hours. The purpose of this call is to acquaint you with the issues that have caused these concerns, in order that you may begin to prepare a response.’
Wesley held his hands firmly in front of him as he spoke on the screen. His eyes, never friendly at the best of times, were sharp and cold. ‘I won’t attempt to conceal from you that having one of our own investigations called into question by the FSAA has caused grave concern at USAC Command, and is potentially very damaging to the Corps. When you see what they are querying, you will realise that you have some very serious questions to answer.’
The colour drained slowly from Donaldson’s face as he listened to Wesley’s words. He knew now what the call was about. Shaffer. He squeezed his fists into two tight balls. He knew he had been right to have been worried. Something that Shaffer had done. But what? He had been adamant that he had covered everything up. And none of the investigation team’s question
s, or interviews with the crew, had shown the remotest hint that they suspected anything. What the hell had they found?
‘This isn’t going to be easy for you to hear,’ the General’s voice continued, ‘but I’m going to read out some of the concerns that have been raised.’ His eyes dropped to an unseen document on the desk in front of him.
‘I’ll skip over some of the procedural violations that were uncovered. Although these need addressing, they’re nothing that would cause anyone significant concern. I’ll go straight to the section that deals with the likely cause of the accident.’ There was the sound of a page being turned.
‘You’ll recall that the Frigate crashed into the ramp at the threshold of the Langley’s flight deck, following an apparently normal approach by an experienced pilot. Our report went into various possibilities, including pilot error, sudden wind shear and flight control malfunction, and has discounted them, for reasons you’re aware of. The interim report concluded that: “Investigations to date suggest that the accident to the Frigate was most likely the result of pilot error in the last few seconds of landing, consistent with some distraction in the cockpit, which caused the aircraft to drop below the minimum safe approach height, at a point where recovery was not possible.”
‘We have adopted this as our interim position until the final report was produced. Specialist investigators from the FSAA, however, have called into question some of the log files that were submitted to Colonel Saffman during the investigation.’
Wesley raised his eyes, glanced coldly at Donaldson, and continued: ‘Let me read one of them to you: “Inspection of the log files for the Langley’s landing system shows certain discrepancies in three digital data streams, that are not consistent with a single contiguous recording. The discrepancies were only discovered through the most painstaking analysis of timing signals, which showed the logs to be not precisely synchronised with other logs made at the same time.”’
There was a sound of a page being turned. ‘And here’s another one: “With respect to the automated glideslope beam angle, there was a minor problem in the power supply to this subsystem that caused minute fluctuations to the actual angle, but on the submitted logs these random fluctuations are missing for the last few seconds of the landing in question. The fluctuations then return. This could be consistent with the replacement of the actual beam angle reading with a substituted value, during the critical last few seconds of landing.” And it goes on.
‘You can see what they’re driving at. It appears that someone has tampered with the data, so that it looks like a completely normal landing. Then the aircraft dips below the glideslope, and hits the ramp. We lose a promising young pilot, without a blemish on her training record. Any investigation would probably reach the same conclusion – pilot error. But in this case, the FSAA isn’t so sure, and now frankly, neither are we.
‘You see, another issue has come up that, together with the above, raises serious concerns.’ Wesley looked up again, and this time his eyes seemed to bore into Donaldson as he spoke his next words. ‘The FSAA have, given the exceptional circumstances, released redacted allegations made under the confidential ethics reporting system by an unnamed crewmember on your vessel. This crewmember has since returned to Earth. I won’t read all of the allegations, as there is one that stands out above all the others, and I quote: “that Colonel Donaldson, commanding officer of the USSV Langley, was engaged in an extramarital relationship with Lieutenant Keller, that she had recently told him she was pregnant with his child, and that he stood at substantial career risk should these facts become known.” Obviously this is an unsubstantiated allegation, but I have to tell you that a pack of pregnancy testing sticks, with two missing, were found in Lieutenant Keller’s cabin during the course of our own investigation, and this fact was withheld from the interim report.’
Donaldson closed his eyes. A lead weight seemed to have grown suddenly in his chest, and he was having difficulty breathing; the room shifted uneasily around him. Wesley was still speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words. He tried to reach out and pause the message, but his hands were shaking too much. Eventually the words resolved themselves again:
‘…in view of the potential implications of these concerns and allegation, which you will have a full opportunity to challenge, you will be relieved of command effective zero eight hundred hours tomorrow morning. Lieutenant Colonel Simmons, currently commanding the space tug Denver in orbit over Venus, will be ferried down to the Langley tomorrow morning and you will surrender your command when he arrives. He will be joined at the earliest opportunity with a specialist data recording expert from the FSAA who will conduct further investigations into the Langley’s systems and logs.’
Wesley’s expression had changed; he was no longer speaking to Donaldson as a senior member of the USAC command structure, but addressing a deposed and disgraced captain, who would be dealt with by the USAC justice system.
‘You will be brought back to Earth on the return flight and will report to me as soon as you have landed. I expect your fullest co-operation with the investigating board, in order that this investigation can be concluded. You have the choice of appointing your own attorney to represent you, or accepting one provided for you by USAC.’
In a final show of indifference, Wesley purposely turned his face to one side, speaking away from the camera:
‘Major General Simon Wesley, USAC Deputy Chief of Staff, zero seven forty Zulu, transmission concluded.’
After Wesley’s face had faded from the screen, Donaldson sat motionless at his desk in shock. In the space of a few short minutes, his entire career had imploded. He felt dizzy, and he pushed his chair back and put his head down between his knees to stop himself from fainting. His breath came in sudden, sharp gasps.
The intercom from the control room beeped, but he silenced it with an angry sweep of his hand, and the motion knocked the picture of his wife and children off his desk and onto the floor. Their faces smiled up at him from the carpet, and he screwed his eyes up in anguish.
What the fuck was he going to do!
He sat upright again, his teeth clenched, and his fist thumped down on the desk, again and again, in the sudden rush of anger that swept over him.
If only he hadn’t listened to Shaffer, and had faced up to what he’d done, then none of this would have happened.
Oh, but it would. What were you going to do – marry her? the accusing voice sneered in his head.
‘She wouldn’t listen to reason!’ he yelled aloud. ‘I tried and I tried! There was no way out!’
And now he had done it, and he had been found out. He sank his face into his hands, and remained in that position, as if by denying his eyes of sight he could somehow hold back the disaster that had overwhelmed him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Frigate swept down out of the morning sky, its engines howling, and slammed onto the flight deck. Its arresting hook caught the second wire neatly, the cable unspooling behind the aircraft as it slowed to a stop.
Clare’s head came back as they rebounded from the halt, and she chopped the power and raised the hook to release the cable.
Shaffer looked over at Clare, and the barest of smiles creased his face. ‘And that’s good enough for me, Lieutenant.’ He keyed the transmit. ‘Tower, Zero Four, request elevator down – and straight back up again for a solo circuit.’ He looked back at her astonished expression. ‘Yes, you heard right, Foster. Drop me off in the hangar and we’ll see how you do on your own.’
Clare grinned, and gunned the thrust. The Frigate rolled forward onto the elevator, and the hold down clamps went in. Shaffer started unfastening his seat straps as soon as the elevator started moving downwards.
‘Just do one circuit, make it like that last one, and bring it back into the hangar.’ Shaffer stood up, and he indicated for her to put on her facemask. ‘Keep the engines running. Cabin should be repressurised in a couple of minutes after I’ve closed the door. Do a good one.’ He cl
apped her on the shoulder in an uncharacteristically friendly gesture and made his way aft, pulling his facemask on. Clare heard the cabin hatch open, and slam shut behind him.
She was on her own, on her first solo in a Frigate on Venus. If she did this right, her basic carrier qualifications on the type would be complete, and she could progress to gaining experience, and more advanced exercises.
‘Do a good one,’ she muttered to herself as she reset the controls for takeoff. She caught sight of Shaffer as he walked to the edge of the elevator. He turned and gave her a brief wave, then stepped off and walked back towards the hangar. Clare wondered if she had been wrong about him; although he’d never varied from his terse, professional manner, the pat on the shoulder had been heartfelt, and it filled her with confidence. She was determined to get this circuit right. She cleared her throat, and pressed the transmit:
‘Tower, Houseboat Zero Four, engines running, request elevator raise.’
‘Zero Four, raising elevator, report when ready for takeoff.’
‘Zero Four.’
As the elevator lifted her up again to the level of the flight deck, Clare readied the aircraft for launch, her hands and eyes moving automatically now.
‘Zero Four, ready for takeoff.’
‘Houseboat Zero Four, clear takeoff. Straight ahead after takeoff heading two six five, climb to six one five and left turn into circuit, you are number one for landing, report downwind.’
‘Zero Four.’ At least there were no other aircraft waiting to land in front of her. That made it easier. She brought the engines up to full power, waited until they stabilised, then flicked the landing lights on.
Here we go.
She was flung back in her seat as the clamps let go and the Frigate soared upwards, climbing away from the carrier. She raised the gear and banked into the left turn, round into the downwind leg of the circuit, the carrier sliding past on her left.
