Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series)

by A J Marshall

  After the first run was complete, Lesley Oakley turned the PTSV around and headed back on a reverse course for the second and final scan. The vehicle’s twelve independently suspended “bubble” tyres transferred a mild vibration to the cylindrical accommodation cell as they traversed a former lake bed, but their bulky electric motors began to complain and the wheels to bounce as the landscape changed from easy undulations to a rock-strewn beach and then a craggy rising escarpment that called for experienced handling skills and careful navigation.

  Fine dust and debris, which still loitered in the thin atmosphere as semi-transparent ochre-coloured clouds, now deposited itself on the vehicle’s white paintwork. The rusty-looking sediment soon filled every nook and cranny and from forward-facing corners it spilled over the bodywork in cascading flurries. On higher ground, where the wind picked up, blower motors on maximum setting hummed loudly in their attempt to keep the five cockpit windows clear. And deep tyre tracks in the brick red sand now being reinforced by a second pass caused a scar across the landscape that, together with the intensifying cloud that trailed behind, made the support and research vehicle highly visible from miles around.

  Field Officer 1st Class Paul Carr of the European Space and Science Agency studied the sensor trace on a circular display whilst trying to keep his balance. Occasionally he looked up and towards the cockpit with a disapproving expression. Eventually, satisfied, he compressed and saved the trace as a digital pulse and transmitted it to Osiris Base via a passing satellite.

  “Osiris Base from Support One, how do you read?”

  “Loud and clear, Paul . . . Go ahead please.”

  “First run complete. Overview looks absolutely fine. All parameters are well within tolerance . . . no problems that I can see . . . must be one of the more reliable arrays. I’ve sent the trace over and we have commenced the second run – I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay, copied, Paul. You’re one hundred per cent sure that there are no anomalies and no visual discrepancies either?”

  “Looks clear to me, Andy . . . Have a look at the readout yourself. I see that Comms have received the package.”

  “Um, copied, okay, thanks for that; I’ll wait to hear from you then.”

  Osiris Base

  11:18 Martian Corrected Time

  Andy Baillie sat at his console deep in thought. His fingertips played nervously upon his display screen while he ran and re-ran a section of digital imagery. He stared at it, enhanced it, magnified it and manipulated it, in order to find a clue as to the unexplained movement detected by the sensor array terminals in the North East Sector – movement that was impossible. Eventually, but clearly with reservations, he pressed a button on his intercom control panel.

  “Good morning, Commander Race here,” was the response.

  “Morning sir, um, it’s Lieutenant Baillie here from the Science Department. Have you got a minute please?”

  “Yes I have, Andy, what is it?”

  “You remember last year, when I arrived, Sir. You said that my job here in Sensor Control was absolutely vital, that the planetary sensor system was key to the safety and survival of Osiris Base, and if I ever had any concerns, no matter how small, how, well, insignificant or off-beat, that I should mention it – draw it to your attention. Well I’ve got something – an anomaly, and it’s niggling me, sir. Something is not right, East Sector . . .”

  “I’m coming over, Andy. Give the Head of Department a call too, please.”

  Commander Tom J. Race of the United States Air Force, the officer commanding the Osiris Base, stood behind Andy Baillie and stared down at the information presented on screen. Riche Fernandes, a tall, lean, officer of Hispanic descent and Head of the Science Department stood by his side.

  “I’m sorry to bother you with this, sir, but something’s not adding up . . . the information I’ve correlated. I’ve checked and rechecked . . . see here . . . and here . . . and here.” Andy Baillie pointed to the screen. “Sensors mounted on these masts, thirteen of them, have detected unknown movement and this trace shows the profile. Look, sir, this shows continuous movement – progressing along the line, passing each terminal in turn. There is no doubt about it. Not only that, I’ve analysed the pattern, taken readings from several other terminals, cross-checked using an algorithm . . . the movement is an exact replication of the human walk. I mean someone has been out there – walking the line, in the North East Sector, making approximately eleven kilometres per hour.”

  “So?”

  “Sir . . . apart from that being a very energetic jog for most of us and for several kilometres, nobody has been that way for almost a year. I checked the survey records. The last time was when the array had its annual inspection – last February, the eighteenth and nineteenth to be precise.”

  “It’s a malfunction then,” said Fernandes, “some ghosting on the digital readout, maybe a scar from a previous recording.”

  “No! That’s not possible either. I cleaned the formatting, overlaid the trace, did everything. At least one person, maybe two, walked past that array when every base member was accounted for here at home!”

  “Run a check on the entire array,” barked Commander Race. “Bring forward the annual inspection.”

  “It’s already under way, sir. Paul Carr has performed the first run; he must be near complete by now. I’m expecting the results for the final scan any time. Here is the readout for the first run. As you can see it checks one hundred per cent – not a single glitch.” Baillie turned in his seat and looked up at the Commander. “Somebody’s been there sir; there is no doubting it,” he said ominously.

  Commander Race’s eyes narrowed. “When was this? When did it happen?”

  At that, Baillie looked away. His expression was regretful.

  “Well!” said Commander Race.

  “Sir, I’ve detected similar movement a few times over the last six months. My reaction was the same as that of Commander Fernandes – not possible, a malfunction, some sort of sensor error. I deleted the traces. Decided to wait until the next annual inspection, identify the faults and have them rectified. I mean clearly it was an anomaly,” he concluded embarrassed.

  “Timings, Andy! Give me the timings!”

  “The first occurrence was back in July, sir. A few days after that bright meteorite came down in the Elysium no-go zone. You remember, we called it the Thanksgiving Meteorite to honour our American colleagues. There have been a few other instances since then and then this last one a few days ago. It’s been on my mind, niggling me, so when Support One was in the area I asked them to run the annual inspection a few weeks early. The rest you know.”

  From across the operations room a woman at another console pushed back in her castored chair and attracted Andy Baillie’s attention. “Excuse me, sir. Andy, Paul Carr on the line from Support One. He says he’s finished the survey.”

  Andy gestured his acknowledgement. “May I?” he asked respectfully.

  Tom nodded. “Put it on open microphone, Andy. I want to ask him a few questions.”

  “Paul, Andy here, how do you read?”

  “Yes, five by five, no problems. Listen, I’ve finished the survey and checked the second scan . . . nothing. It all looks good to me. I’m sending over the trace now. There is one thing though . . .”

  “Paul, Commander Race is with me and the HOD, too. The Commander wants to ask you a few questions.”

  “Understood . . . morning sir . . . from the team.”

  “Good morning, Paul. First off, what’s on your mind?”

  “We spotted the main power box open on one of the radio masts – number twenty-seven, sir. A magnified image showed us that the cover had been prised open – I mean how can that happen? Anyway, I sent Martine out to take a look ten minutes ago. She’s on station now. Only she’s found an optical fibre spliced into one of the junctions, as if someone has tapped into the automatic communication and control system. That would give access, electronically, to the entire array.
Perhaps even back to the Control Centre.”

  Andy Baillie’s eyes widened with disbelief, as did those of the two Commanders. Another officer upon hearing the transmission walked over to the console; he looked totally bemused.

  “Where does the optic fibre go, Paul?” Commander Race asked.

  “Apparently it disappears in the sand after a few metres, but Martine says that it appears to go off in the direction of the Elysium Pyramids. There’s a dust storm getting up at the moment so we can’t see the structures, but normally from here we could see the pinnacles of Zeta One and Two at least. The power box lid had been bent backwards breaking the lock and then made good and closed to an extent to provide some protection for the circuitry inside. Is any maintenance documented for this terminal? I mean, what self-respecting tradesman would . . . ? Wait a minute, we have a problem . . . Martine’s calling in.” Talking to someone else, Paul Carr said, “What’s she saying? Put her on speaker!”

  The voice of Martine Ebury went live in both locations. “I saw something moving a moment ago; behind me by the rocky outcrop. Is Dan outside . . . ? Is anyone else outside?” She sounded fretful.

  “No. You’re on your own. Dan’s still in the dispatch section. Take a close-up of the power box and come back, Martine.”

  Veronica looked up from her control console, made eye contact with Paul and shrugged. Her expression of bewilderment was tinged with apprehension.

  “Wait! There! Something is out here, like a shadow, a figure.”

  “Martine, come in now please. Forget the image.”

  “I’ve seen something! It’s moving quickly. It’s coming this way! There’s a lot of sand in the air . . . Oh God, I’m . . .”

  “Martine, this is Paul. You come back now. That’s an order!”

  “I’m coming back! Oh no, it’s chasing me! Open up! I’m coming . . . must get away . . . !”

  The sound of peppering sand and heavy erratic breathing came through the speakers. Veronica put a hand to her mouth. Paul dashed over to the control console. There was an eerie whine; it unnerved everyone.

  “Sitrep, please . . . What’s happening?” Andy Baillie demanded over the radio.

  “Where are you now, Martine? Answer me,” said Paul, bending towards the microphone.

  There was silence.

  “Martine . . . Martine! Can you hear me?” shouted Veronica.

  “Help me . . . help me . . . help . . .” Martine Ebury’s words trailed away until they were no longer audible.

  “Dan! Get my suit ready – I’m going out! Veronica, keep calling her!” Paul ordered.

  At that moment the support vehicle began to shake violently. There was a banging and a clanking from outside. “What the hell was that?”

  “Paul! Something is on top of us!” yelled Lesley from the front, her expression one of controlled terror.

  Muffled shouts emanated from the rear compartment followed by more clanking and tearing noises from above.

  “Secure the airlock!” Paul shouted. He turned towards the cockpit. “Lesley, get us out of here . . . now!”

  “We can’t leave her!” was the reply.

  “I said, now!”

  Electric motors began to whine. The vehicle shuddered. And then gas began to vent – loud and whistling. Lesley glanced into the large, external, rear-view mirror on her left-hand side only to see pieces of pipe and other metallic objects showering the ground. A microwave dish flew past her window. Lesley floored the accelerator pedal as billowing clouds of white condensing gas began to circulate, completely obscuring the view behind. And then red lights began to illuminate on her control panel and an oxygen alarm began to sound. We are being attacked!” she shouted. “Something is on the roof and pulling us apart!”

  “Put your foot down . . . manoeuvre!”

  “It’s no good! I’m trying!”

  “What the hell is going on out there?” yelled Andy Baillie over the radio.

  Paul rushed into the cockpit. Lesley was at top speed and swerving from side to side. Still the attack persisted. At 50 mph over that terrain the PTSV bounced and vibrated violently. Desperately hanging onto a roof member with one hand and unscrewing a porthole cover with the other, Paul tried to get a glimpse outside. There was nothing to see, but the sound of malicious damage continued in a frenzy above him. Further down the tube there was another porthole in the roof. Hand over hand he made his way back and unscrewed the securing clip. “Sit down and strap in,” he told the two crew members. Vertically upwards, through the small glass window, he caught sight of something. He didn’t believe it at first and had to look again. Then immediately he turned and loped forward again, into the cockpit. Several oxygen gauges showed in the red sector; alarms rang in his ears. There was a switch on the control panel that was covered by a plastic red and yellow striped cover and marked DANGER. Without hesitation he lifted the safety device. Fighting with the steering levers, Lesley glanced at him momentarily as if to say, “What are you doing?” and then he pressed the button. Instantly the red numbers in the adjacent digital readout began to increase and there was a loud buzzing that permeated the vehicle. When the readout showed 20,000 Volts, Paul pressed the button again and repositioned the safety cover.

  Immediately, the assault on the vehicle appeared to stop. Paul looked at the ceiling with trepidation and then ran his eye line down the tube. Outside everything was quiet. With a hand movement he indicated to Lesley to reduce speed and then he scribed a circle with his finger, requesting that she turnaround. Then he walked the length of the tube listening intently. The two crew members stared at him, terrified; he reassured them with a nod and a smile. “Back to your stations – we are going home.”

  “What about Martine? We can’t leave her,” said one of the women.

  That was a command decision he was in the process of making. Was she dead already? Would he put the rest of his crew in danger by going back? Would another static charge from the magnetic desensitising system fend off a repeat attack? Osiris Base was almost three days’ drive, he thought. He removed an intercom microphone from a holder on a nearby bulkhead. Engineer Dan Winton was the sixth crew member; his station was in the rear compartment, the other side of two pressure doors. “Dan, how is it back there?” Paul asked.

  “I’ve survived, if that’s what you mean. Structurally, we’ve taken quite a bit of damage. What was that all about, for God’s sake? Something from hell. It scared the shit out of me.”

  “I’ll fill you in in a bit. Give me a system sitrep.”

  “Oxygen is our main problem, lost almost eighty per cent. The emergency supply uses internal plumbing. I managed to salvage two hundred litres from the aft bottle port side; the rest were damaged and all the contents vented to atmosphere.”

  “So how does it look? Be specific.”

  “Two days, Paul . . . maybe fifty hours at the most – that’s very tight to get back to Osiris. The suits will give another four or five hours.”

  “And with five of us?”

  Veronica gasped. There was a fatalistic pause. Was that the reality of the situation?

  “With five of us, Paul, there’s enough – if we leave now.” Dan’s voice was sombre. “Listen, one other thing . . . Whatever attacked us tried to stop the access door from closing. I thought it was coming in! The peripheral seals are damaged, but they are holding at the moment. If I cycle the door again I may not be able to seal it, and flushing the entrance portal will require additional oxygen . . . I’m sorry.”

  Lesley called back from the cockpit. “Paul, Commander Race wants a situation report ASAP.”

  Paul raised his hand in acknowledgement and then he turned to Anna who sat at the life support console. “What do you have on Martine?” he asked bluntly.

  Anna, who was still visibly shaken, shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing . . . no indications,” she answered, almost in a whisper. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Is that because she is dead, or because her life functions system has malfunc
tioned?”

  Anna shook her head and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  Paul Carr drew a long breath and looked out through one of the circular side windows at the alien environment. Visibility had increased again and the distant sun illuminated the landscape with a rich orange glow. He could see a sand squall passing over the nearby ridge. They were moving at a walking pace back in an easterly direction.

  Paul flipped a switch on the intercom panel and his microphone became live through the speaker system. “Listen up everyone,” he said solemnly. “I believe Martine to be dead. We have only enough oxygen to get back to base if we leave now. I have no intention of putting the mission in jeopardy by going back to that area – God knows what else is out there. I’m sorry – I really am. Lesley, plot a course for home – maximum speed consistent with the damage we have sustained. And patch this mic through to the operations room in Osiris.”

  Lesley Oakley, in the cockpit, made a few selections and then she turned and held up a thumb. Paul nodded.

  “Base Ops from Support One, how do you read?”

  “Loud and clear . . . What’s going on?”

  “We’ve had some problems, Andy. On our way back to you now – navigation system predicting sixty-three hours. I am reporting one crew member down – Martine Ebury. I believe her to be dead. Course of action necessitated by life support deficiency. Request you instigate Emergency Retrieval Protocol Code Zero Three. Is Commander Race still with you?”