by Tom Barber
The QAR was the back-up, with more basic information stored, but it was easily playable on less sophisticated equipment. Both machines would have the recordings of what happened, but there was no way Miller would attempt to access the main recorder. He could work on the QAR instead as he damn well wanted to know what had happened when they took the hit and who’d killed the rest of his squad.
The QAR was in a second panel just beyond the home of the main flight recorder. Miller did the same as before, quickly working out all four screws then taking off the lid.
He grabbed the handle and pulled the QAR free then knelt down and crawled his way back out of the cockpit.
When he made it outside, he turned and dropped the wet towel, taking deep cleansing breaths of air to clear any trace of the smoke and smell from his nose and lungs. He put the secondary unit on top of the first one, then rose, picking up his M16 203.
‘That’s it?’ Olson said.
‘That’s both. We’re good to go.’
‘I’ll get the truck.’
Olson passed over the pistol so fast it could have been a hot coal. Miller clicked the safety on and holstered it as Olson ran towards the Dodge.
Watching him go, Miller remained where he was for a few seconds, then walked forward and looked out at the dark emptiness around him.
He concentrated on focusing his sight and hearing, listening for any sound or anything at all to indicate there was someone out there.
But it was all quiet.
The light wind brushed through his hair, granules of sand tickling his face.
The slowly dying flames from the ship behind him were still casting their shadows along the ground, flickering and constantly changing.
His instincts were telling him it was a trap, and that they were trying to lure him out.
They’d been watching somehow, and had seen there were survivors from the crash and wanted to finish them off.
He stood there alone, looking out into the dark, his mind running through all the possible scenarios.
Maybe Olson was right. A member of his team could conceivably have crawled out after the crash and before the explosion. Two of the guys had been ripped out of the hole in the cabin, and the transport seats were equipped with parachutes.
Miller had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, and he’d been dazed when he’d made it out of the ship.
Maybe someone else had survived after all.
It could be one of his people out there, firing their weapon to get attention then screaming for help.
They’d die because he’d stayed where he was, too wary and cautious to do anything about it.
He’d have to spend the trip home wondering if he’d left someone behind.
He glanced over his shoulder at the ship. If it hadn’t still been burning, he’d have gone inside and collected dog-tags from the dead, making sure everyone was accounted for. He couldn’t check the pulse-monitors because the station didn’t have the right equipment.
As the thoughts flickered around his mind like the flames of the ship behind him, Olson fired the engine to the truck which instantly grabbed his attention.
He bent down, picked up the two flight recorders, then turned and headed over to the 4x4 quickly, tossing them both in the back. He jumped into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind him.
‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ Olson said.
‘Not yet. Head that way,’ Miller said, pointing to the plains to the right of the burning ship.
‘What? Why?’
‘I want to make sure of something.’
Olson looked at him for a moment, hesitating.
‘Let’s go.’
Relenting, he put his foot down and they took off into the darkness, headed east.
ELEVEN
They’d been driving for about a minute when the headlights picked something out ahead of them on the plain.
As they drew closer, they saw what looked like two people side by side in twin seats, some white fabric fluttering gently behind them in the wind.
‘Holy shit,’ Miller said. ‘Go!’
Olson floored it then slid to a halt beside the two bodies.
Miller got out and ran towards them.
As he got close he saw it was Privates Haas and Rodriguez, their two expended parachutes strung out behind them and blowing in the light wind.
However, Miller slowed then stopped.
Both guys were dead.
Haas had been impaled by a piece of shrapnel, which had hit him with such force that it had punched through his Kevlar vest, and Rodriguez’ neck was broken.
Miller knelt down in front of them, his momentary excitement completely evaporated like morning mist.
He checked each man’s pulse one a time to make sure, but there was nothing there.
After taking a moment and swallowing his disappointment, he reached inside Haas’ fatigues and carefully retrieved his letter, then took his dog tag and pulled it away as gently as he could. He did the same with Rodriguez; as he went to rise, he noticed that Rodriguez had several scopes strapped to his vest.
Two of them were cracked but one was intact.
Miller took it from its pouch and examined it in his hands. The scope was infrared, allowing a sniper to see in the dark, vital on tactical missions.
Miller slipped it into his pocket, just about the first piece of luck he’d had since the crash.
Given the darkness of the landscape, it would come in handy.
Olson was standing behind him, not saying a word. Miller rose and turned to him.
‘That’s all of my squad accounted for.’
He looked at the darkness around them.
‘Whoever fired those shots and screamed isn’t one of my guys.’
Olson nodded, staring at the two dead soldiers. Miller turned back to the two dead men, slung his rifle over his shoulder, then reached forward and grabbed the piece of shrapnel embedded in Haas’ torso.
He tensed his arms and started to pull, using his foot to push against the seat. Eventually it gave way.
Tossing the metal to one side, Miller unclipped the dead man who slumped forward and hit the dirt once he was freed. Bending down, Miller took hold of his wrists.
‘Get his legs,’ he told Olson. ‘We’re putting him the truck. They’re both coming with us.’
Less than a minute later they were on their way back to the station, the two dead men in the back alongside the QAR and main recorder.
Olson had driven fast on the way out, but he was outdoing himself on the journey back. Despite the terrain being completely natural, this portion of the moon was relatively flat which was just as well considering the way he was driving.
‘I don’t like this,’ Olson said.
‘Driving? I can tell.’
‘No. If it’s not one of your guys who fired the shots, then who the hell did?’
Miller nodded, looking out of his window.
‘It’s OK. You’re all coming with me when I leave.’
‘What?’
‘You’re leaving too. Until we can identify who the hell is out there, you’re getting out of here. You and all of your team.’
‘We can’t just leave our posts, Corporal,’ Olson said, looking at the other man. ‘We’ll be fired.’
‘Perhaps that’s the better option.’
Looking ahead, Miller saw a crater approaching.
‘Go left.’
‘What?’
Miller grabbed the wheel and wrenched it to the left, the vehicle swerving and just avoiding the crater.
Olson turned to Miller to protest.
But Miller suddenly saw something loom out of the darkness in front of the truck.
‘Look out!’ he shouted.
Olson put his foot on the brake and the Dodge slammed to a grinding halt, throwing both men forward in their seats as an ear-splitting shriek echoed from somewhere in front of them.
As they recovered from the sudden stop, Olson
took a few deep breaths and looked at Miller who was staring out of the windshield.
The engine was still humming, Olson’s foot pushed all the way down on the brake pedal.
Miller sat very still as he stared ahead.
When Olson had turned to him, someone had appeared in front of them, right in their path.
The figure was now lying on the ground in front of the Dodge.
Miller moved his hand to his seatbelt, unclicking it, then gently eased open his door, sliding out and staring down the sights of the M16 203 at the body as Olson stepped out on the other side.
The headlights were illuminating the figure on the ground as if it was on stage in a theatre.
It was a soldier, dressed in combat fatigues.
The same as Miller’s.
He wasn’t moving. Miller crept forward, Olson joining him.
‘Did I hit him?’ he asked.
Miller shook his head. ‘No.’
The body was face down.
Miller came to a stop, looking down at it.
Keeping his rifle trained on its head, he rolled it over with his foot.
‘I was right,’ Olson said from behind him. ‘It must have been him who was screaming. He climbed out from the crash before the ship exploded.’
‘He didn’t come from the crash site,’ Miller said quietly.
‘How can you be sure?’
Miller didn’t reply.
Olson stepped forward, taking a look at the body.
He froze.
It was Keller.
*
Miller immediately dropped to one knee, sweeping the surrounding area.
‘It’s the man from the recreation room,’ Olson said. ‘How on earth did he get out here? He’s dead!’
Miller did a 360, covering them from every angle and replaying the sequence in his mind.
He’d seen a figure in the headlights. When they’d braked, he’d dropped to the ground, but they hadn’t felt any impact.
And he’d heard a shriek, a high-pitched and almost painful sound.
He turned his attention to the area around the dead man, looking for footprints.
He only saw one set in the dust, boots leading from the front of the Dodge back into the darkness.
Keller’s boots.
‘Someone must have taken his body,’ Olson said, scanning the darkness. ‘They dumped him when we veered into their path.’
‘Why the hell would they want his corpse?’ Miller replied.
Swearing, he moved over to Keller’s body and double-checked his pulse. There was nothing there. He was definitely dead, but there was just one set of footprints which didn’t make any sense.
He looked at the darkness around them.
After a few tense moments, he swung his rifle over his shoulder then grabbed Keller’s feet.
‘Get his hands,’ he said. ‘We’re taking him back.’
Olson complied, the two men picking up the body.
‘If someone went into the station, what about Weathers and Garcia?’ he asked as he took Keller’s legs. ‘Will they be OK?’
Grabbing the dead man’s arms, Miller looked at the lights of the station in the distance.
‘We’re about to find out.’
TWELVE
Although it wasn’t far, the drive back to the station seemed to take twice as long, Miller tense and on edge, not a word said between him and Olson as they drove on. He kept an iron grip on his rifle the whole way, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on.
He was a 101st Spartan, a two-tour veteran and experienced well beyond the point of battle-hardened, but the appearance of Keller’s body out there had truly baffled and unnerved him. He was a man of fact and always had been. The Earth was round. When you died, that was it; there was no heaven, no afterlife. Taxes, death and trouble somewhere in between were the only givens in life.
But seeing Keller loom out of the darkness like that had thrown all of those certainties out of the window. Keller was dead, no question; Miller had just felt for his non-existent pulse and had watched him die.
But he’d been out there on the plain.
With only one set of footprints around him.
And then there was that gunfire.
He fought the urge to look into the back seat at the corpse of his team-mate and checked his watch instead.
41:05.
41:04.
Whatever happened next, Miller had a feeling the next forty minutes were going to feel a hell of a lot longer than they actually were.
They arrived outside the station and Olson swung into the garage, pulling to a sharp halt in one of the two empty spaces. As he put the transmission into Park and killed the engine, both men saw that the door at the top of the steps to the ground floor corridor was open.
Weathers had been keeping watch down here when they left, but there was no sign of her anymore.
‘Grab the recorders and stay behind me,’ Miller ordered, not taking his eyes off the open doorway up the stairs to his left.
He slid out of the vehicle, shutting the passenger door quietly behind him. He edged his way around the back of the Dodge and looked out into the darkness through the open grille.
He couldn’t see anything out there.
They hadn’t been followed.
He turned and headed up the stairs, all his senses on full alert, Olson following close behind.
Miller paused by the open doorway, took a deep breath, then swung out into the stairwell.
The second door was open too, allowing Miller to look at the entire corridor down the sights of his weapon.
It was empty and quiet.
No one was there.
Miller took two steps forward, his boots quiet on the floor, Olson clutching the two black boxes and staying behind the soldier.
They slowly made their way down the hallway, Miller’s finger tense on the trigger of his weapon, heading past the closed door to the kitchen on their right.
Nothing.
No one.
They came to a stop outside the rec room. The place where Keller had died.
This door was hinged, not a sliding panel, and it was slightly ajar.
Miller swung into the room, his weapon in the aim.
Weathers was in there, looking flustered, one of the .22s in her hands.
She started when Miller suddenly appeared, dropping the rifle clumsily with a gasp.
She was standing beside the table where Keller’s body had been laid.
It was now empty, save for the blood stains on the surface and the defibrillator abandoned on one side.
Keeping his rifle on Weathers, Miller glanced to his left and saw Bailey still lying on the pool table.
‘What’s going on?’ Weathers asked.
‘How long have you been in here?’
‘I just came in,’ she said, looking scared, her voice shaking. She pointed at the blood-stained empty table. ‘Did you move the body of your friend?’
‘No,’ Miller said. ‘We didn’t.’
‘Where’s Garcia?’ Olson asked.
‘On the roof.’
Miller looked at her for a moment longer, then lowered his rifle.
‘Did you hear anything whilst we were gone?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing. I went upstairs to check the corridors and came back down. What’s going on? Where is he?’
Miller didn’t reply, letting Olson explain. He turned and headed towards the stairs up to the main control room. He wanted to get to their computer, open up the QAR and listen to what the pilots had to say before the transport had taken the hit, but he also wanted to get to higher ground.
For some reason, someone had taken Keller’s body.
And they’d made it in and out of the building without anyone even being aware of it.
*
A few moments later, Olson and Weathers had joined Miller upstairs in the control room. Olson stepped forward and dumped the two flight recorders on the main deskt
op. Miller pulled out the screwdriver Olson had loaned him and extracted all four screws on the front of the QAR.
There was sudden movement at the main door. Miller quickly reached for his weapon but it was just Garcia re-joining them.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Olson asked.
‘Roof.’
‘You see anything?’
‘Nothing. It’s quiet.’
‘Where’s your rifle?’ Miller asked.
Garcia paused.
‘I left it upstairs. Shit.’
Miller shook his head in disbelief and turned back to the flight recorder. Placing the electronic screwdriver to one side, he pulled off the protective plate then withdrew the QAR.
It was a small steel box, the flight recording equipment inside.
There were a string of numbers engraved on the top.
Miller turned to Olson, pointing at an electronic tablet.
‘Pass me that.’
He carried it over and the group watched in quiet curiosity as Miller placed the tablet beside the QAR. He typed a code into the tablet, followed by the numbers from the box, then sat back and waited, the two devices synchronising.
Nothing happened for a moment.
‘C’mon, you son of a bitch,’ Miller muttered, watching the screen.
‘Is it broken?’ Olson asked.
‘Wait.’
Suddenly, the QAR started whirring, and a screen appeared above the device, a hologram directly in front of Miller. They were in business.
Miller’s finger hovered over some of the keys, reading the data on the screen and responding to it.
The flight time had been four hours and sixteen minutes in total.
He scrolled forward to 4:14, the last two minutes of the flight. That would tell him what he wanted to know.
‘Here we go,’ he said, and hit Play.
The recording filled the room.
They all stood there in silence, listening to dead men’s voices.
‘Routine instrument check. All good,’ one of the pilots said.
‘Roger.’
Pause.
‘Approaching Deimos #94.’
There were pauses in the conversation, the talk natural and relaxed, two men at ease behind the controls. They were combat pilots after all; for them, this would have been a smooth and unusually trouble-free ride home.
