Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series)

by A J Marshall

  As he walked slowly back to the PTSV, the images he had seen in the module came to mind again, and so too did the memory of being pushed from the high ledge of the Zeta Three pyramid by the Osiris Base Security Officer. Major Gregory Searle . . . he would never forget that name: he’d almost died in the subsequent fall. Although more than four years had passed, the name of that conspirator, the corporation he turned out to be working for, and what he was doing that day, sprang easily to mind. Tom recalled leaving the treacherous man wounded on the bridge of the Enigma, but Searle’s eventual fate remained a mystery.

  Lesley Oakley was ready to get underway when Tom stepped into the cockpit area. Paul had left the body of Lee Tanner in the airlock where the temperature could be maintained at a sub-zero level. Paul Carr sat in the observer’s seat and made ready with the pulse cannon.

  “You had better back off another hundred metres, Lesley,” advised Tom. “And then put a hole in its side, will you Paul? That ship is not going to leave this planet.”

  With a good distance between them, Paul directed three magnetic pulses at full charge directly at the module. The subsequent explosions nearly ripped the ascent vehicle from its mountings. As the PTSV turned and headed back to Osiris Base, bottled rocket propellant and volatile gas exploded and a raging fire took hold. Tom gestured for Paul to follow him to a rear console as he pulled a finger-sized memory stick from his pocket.

  “Did you make contact with Osiris Base?”

  “High-frequency communications are distorted at the moment, Commander, due to the electrical storm over the Borealis basin. But the message got through alright. The next geostationary satellite will rise in about three hours; I’ll confirm our requirements then. They know about Tanner . . . a body bag is part of the standard inventory on board the medical vehicle.” Paul shook his head. “What a way to go, a fist through the visor!”

  “There are two more of those damned robots out there somewhere and I’m convinced we will find them in the vicinity of the Elysium Pyramids. At best they are HU40 models, but judging by the speed of that machine when it caught up with me, we are dealing with an improved model. That’s scary!” Tom pulled the robot’s pistol from his pocket. He had wrenched it from a severed hand that he had found in the wreckage of the buggy. He placed it on the table. “That’s a very capable weapon,” he said. “A Lurzengard semi-automatic, Special Forces issue revolver. It has two actions – a one centimetre, high-velocity sublet with an armour piercing tip, as here; or a rotary chamber capable of firing ten thousand micro-sublets per minute. Either option would penetrate the pressure vessel of this vehicle – no question. We will need to be very careful. Now, look at this.” With that, Tom pushed the memory device into the computer’s inlet port. Almost instantly the first image appeared on the screen. Each was of high definition and excellent clarity and Tom flipped through them until he came to several that were taken in close proximity to the huge stone door of the pyramid Zeta Three. “I remember being on that ledge when these images were taken. A man named Major Gregory Searle was responsible. You may remember the name. He was the base security officer back in 2050.”

  Paul nodded. “I’ve heard the stories.”

  “Subsequently, he tried to take me out – nearly did, too. After that, the blanket no-go zone was reinstated. No one has been back there since. There are reasons; you’ll find out soon enough. Anyway, he turned out to be working for the Spheron Corporation; somehow he must have passed these images to them at the time, because I left him wounded, perhaps fatally, on the ISS Enigma a few days later. Then that ship disappeared and he was never heard of again. He must be dead.” Tom stopped and pointed to a specific image. “I remember that, too,” he continued, looking up at Paul. “What do you make of it?”

  Paul shrugged. “It’s an impression in the stone . . . a human hand . . . small . . . a woman’s, I’d say. Well, you know, like a woman’s . . . it’s remarkably accurate.”

  Tom agreed with a nod. “If you look closely, even the fingerprints are visible.”

  “Really. Why?”

  “Nobody knows. But I remember thinking at the time that it looked like a key. No, not a key, where a key is placed.”

  “You mean a hand . . . Somebody puts their hand there and the door opens, right?”

  “Something like that. But these pyramids are thousands of years old, probably tens of thousands of years, so whoever held the ‘key’ is long gone. But what it tells us is that there is something inside, something of importance, something that was only accessible to a key holder – perhaps a fraternity. I think that’s why the Humatrons are here – in order to get inside again.”

  “What possible motive could there be for a robot to . . . ? I just can’t see any relevance.”

  “A good friend of mine told me that our Elysium Pyramids have a direct link in terms of architecture and orientation to the pyramids in Egypt. Sounds far-fetched I know, but I believe him to be right. What he also said, although he wouldn’t elaborate, was that the Egyptian pyramids had a historical link to the Kalahari crystals. So you see where I’m coming from?”

  “Yes, but we will need mining equipment and perhaps some acoustic charges to get through a stone door like that – unless the Humatrons have beaten us to it?”

  “I already made provision for this, Paul; there’s a container in the hold. Considering that our programme was first the module and then the pyramids, I didn’t want any holdups.” Tom rubbed his brow in a concerned fashion. “A day to the rendezvous position and another back to Elysium . . . in forty-eight hours, we will find out!”

  CHAPTER 19

  Full Circle

  Africa – the border area between Egypt and Sudan

  Later the same day

  Richard felt restricted, if not a little claustrophobic. That was common, even to be expected, but he was comfortable enough. Cosseted inside the flight capsule whilst wearing the specialised, fleece-lined jump suit was more akin to being cocooned in a tiny padded stasis cell used for short-term space hibernation, only with fewer options. As in space, outside the capsule, he would be dead within seconds. Instrument repeaters on a small panel above his head indicated 49,000 feet and Mach 2.

  The dark green suit incorporated a balaclava-type head covering, with holes only for his eyes and mouth, and rubber-soled socks. The attire made him feel hot – despite adequate temperature control, direct ventilation and an outside static indication of minus fifty-six degrees Celsius. There was a waterproof film of cellulose acetate applied to the material and that gave it a sticky feel and a dull sheen. With thick gloves and a thin flexible lifejacket buttoned on waistcoat-style, the whole outfit made him look not unlike a knitted doll.

  Designed specifically for the pinpoint placement of Special Operations Operatives into conflict areas, including those with heavy sensor saturation, the Special Air Pod was affectionately known in the trade as The Covert Can, and Richard had been assured that the system was equally at home on water as it was on land. He desperately hoped that this was the case, as the drop zone was two kilometres east of the old port area of Adulis and into the Red Sea.

  Richard had used a covert insertion system such as this once before. It had been for a similar mission, only the drop had taken place over Rome and with much more restrictive landing parameters. That system, of ingenious German design, had utilised a semi-rigid exoskeleton – a suit with a hard outer shell. To say that the wearer was petrified throughout the entire free-fall phase was an understatement. But this British system was different, being essentially an undetectable missile until 1,000 feet above the drop zone, an aeroplane for 950 feet and a hovercraft until touchdown.

  The capsule that Richard lay inside had a multi-faceted cross-section producing a near zero radar signature, and stub wings that would automatically deploy at the end of the free-fall stage to reduce the rate of descent and provide accurate control and guidance to the required landing coordinates. Compressed air from a peripheral skirt would cushion the final t
ouchdown. On the water, a low-velocity but high-volume air jet, produced by a silent running, shrouded electric fan, would propel him to the outer harbour wall. There the nose cone would be jettisoned, Richard would swim clear and the capsule would sink. Finally, naturally occurring salts in the water would completely dissolve the entire structure. After six to seven hours there would be no trace of it.

  The capsule utilised by his new-found friend and bolted beneath the port wing of Lieutenant Quarrie’s Typhoon 5 fighter, was, however, a little older. With that model, the top half of the capsule would be manually ejected and the resulting open canister used as a canoe. Thereafter, the limiting factor to range was ability to paddle. In the case of the HIM 32, however, and its motorised potential, Richard expected Thomas to be the first to reach the rendezvous position on the outer harbour wall.

  Richard’s involvement with the mechanics of the drop would be minimal. Nevertheless, there would be some basic drills he would need to perform and it was these that he was mentally preparing himself for when the pilot called him.

  “Commander Reece, I’ve a call coming in from London – on the military net,” he said, his voice hollowed and aerated by his tight-fitting oxygen mask. “Can you see the comms panel, top left? There’s a speaker mode – just flick the switch.”

  “Got it, I’m ready,” replied Richard.

  “It’s a maximise passive format, Commander . . . by that I mean it’s primarily receive only. We can’t afford to transmit in this area – not supposed to be here, you understand.”

  “But it’s secure, right?”

  “Correct. London will transmit in coded format via a satellite link. We have a descrambler on-board.”

  “Understood. Put them through, then. I’m listening.”

  “Go ahead, London, we have a good signal,” invited Lieutenant Quarrie.

  There was a silent pause and then the familiar voice of Peter Rothschild emanated from the speaker. “Richard, Peter here,” he said. “I understand that this is one-way conversation. If only this could happen more often – a very desirable position, me thinks.” There was another pause and Richard shook his head in an irritated fashion, and then suddenly a humorous expression crept over his face – he thought of Rothschild taking pleasure in the predicament. But the drollness was very short-lived. “Richard,” continued Rothschild, earnestly, “please listen carefully; we have a number of issues and time is pressing . . . First, the Prime Minister received a high level call from Andromeda’s Ambassador to the Space Federation this morning. He has passed the matter down to me. The Lunar Senate want you back at your desk immediately; they have a security alert, although they are not giving any specific details at the moment – they seem intent on their isolationist policies. I’ve managed to negotiate another twelve hours, but they are not happy and the clock is running. You must do what you need to in Adulis and then get back here as soon as possible. We did manage to get a message to the museum via our local man. Consequently, the Curator will be expecting you; but no more than four hours – five maximum. By some measure of good fortune, we have an Opportune Class submarine on patrol in the Gulf of Aden; she has been notified and will be on hand to extract you. Admiral Hughes has authorised the pick up at 23:00 hours GMT today: that’s six hours and forty-one minutes from now. They will send an inflatable to the outer harbour; coordinates will follow and also the frequency of the sonic hail. Now don’t be late. You’ll be dropped off on the other side . . . in Saudi . . . we have local collaboration. Again, exact details will be posted to your pager in a secure format. Lieutenant Quarrie will be waiting for you at the Alhazoun military base, and thereafter it’s a flight back to London’s Orbitalport and an immediate return to Andromeda. Your assignment to view the Nazca Lines in Peru will have to wait.” Rothschild paused and Richard heard some talking in the background – Sentinel Wing was mentioned, and Andromeda. What the hell’s happening on the Moon? he thought.

  “Second, there are problems on Mars,” Rothschild continued. “The ISSF has received a Code 1 security warning from Osiris Base. I haven’t got the full details yet, but it’s something to do with Humatrons – although only God knows how. If that’s the case it implicates the conglomerate trio again and that ties in with the undercover assassin Karl Rhinefeld, and possibly you as a target. Arrangements are being made by the ISSF to enter the Spheron Headquarters forcibly in the next few days. They are waiting for permission from the French and German authorities.

  “Finally, Commander Race is arranging an armed expeditionary force to go to the Elysium Pyramids on Mars. Clearly, he thinks that there is important information to be found there. We also have some rather unconventional information regarding what might be inside. As the senior planetary surveyor before the present no-go zone was established, he may need some information from you – so be aware of it. Okay, that’s it. Now be careful. I’ll wait to hear of your arrival in Saudi . . . Over and out!” The line went dead almost immediately.

  For a diplomatic recall, the security issues on the Moon would be serious – very serious. It is not a good time to be away from my squadron; not least because it might reflect badly on my naturalisation application, thought Richard, as he lay on his side and considered the unfolding events. Then he thought of Rachel; I can only imagine the consequences of my papers being returned. He breathed a deep sigh and felt helpless. It was New Year’s Day. Would she have celebrated? Would she have sat alone? He hadn’t had time to call. The first day of 2055, he mused. What would the year bring, and what of Naomi . . . especially Naomi?

  We are approaching the drop zone, said Lieutenant Quarrie in a matter-of-fact tone, his words wresting Richard from his thoughts. “Navigation computer indicates five minutes and fifteen seconds – speed stabilised at Mach 2. Radar jamming and decoy scatter active.”

  “Copied,” replied Richard. “When I put my helmet on I’m ready. What about the other pod?”

  “Roger that, sir . . . the other pod is indicating primary green.”

  “Good. Can I talk to the robot?” asked Richard.

  “Yes, of course. Cross pod intercom is now on.”

  “Thomas, it’s me. Are you ready for the drop?”

  “Well, I’m jammed in like a sardine, and my restraint system is checked and functioning, if that’s what you mean. So, yes, I suppose I’m ready.”

  Sardines! By comparison they enjoy wide open spaces! Richard thought, and he dismissed the quip with a click of his tongue and tried to move, but lying flat on his back with his feet in the direction of travel and his head and body now tightly restrained, there was no give. His face covering snagged the chinstrap of his helmet.

  “Four minutes!” said Lieutenant Quarrie.

  “Listen,” Richard said impatiently. “Just to confirm. We rendezvous at the south-east corner of the outer harbour. Coordinates are confirmed and in the flight plan. Your capsule is timed to land on the water precisely two minutes before mine. This will give us adequate separation. My capsule is self-propelled. You have a pair of oars in yours; just make sure you know where they are. I should make land first. If you get disorientated, listen out for my sonic hail. They tell me that you’ve got enhanced hearing – frequency range the same as a bat – so it should be no problem for you to home in on the signal if it becomes necessary. But be aware that I will only switch the hailer on if you’re not at the rendezvous ten minutes after I arrive. And for God’s sake, don’t forget to isolate your radio; absolutely no transmissions, and no lights either – the place is swarming with Tongsei militia.”

  “Two minutes!” said the pilot.

  “Anything else? Any problems that you would like to share?” asked Richard, wondering if irony would be lost on the robot.

  “Um, no, I don’t think so . . . hope for the best then.”

  “Hope doesn’t come into the equation. Just do your drills and report to the coordinates as soon as you are able to. Now, let’s get on with it.”

  Lieutenant Quarrie interjected. “One mi
nute and counting everybody – standby for release. Isolating pod systems. Refer now to the timer on your instrument panels. Disconnecting umbilical cord. Good luck and see you in Saudi.”

  Richard heard a clanking sound outside his capsule. Here we go again, he said to himself, as he watched the red digits on the panel count down. “Ten seconds . . . five, four, three, two, one,” he whispered, and then he instinctively clenched his stomach muscles – but he still tasted bile in his throat as the capsule dropped suddenly. There was a moment’s severe and heart-rending turbulence until the capsule fell well clear of the aircraft. He closed his eyes and laid his gloved fingers over them to stop them bulging. There was a barely audible whistle. And then only the silently changing parameters on the instrument panel indicated the reality outside.

  The altimeter reading continued to decrease at an alarming rate. Richard’s eyes widened as the capsule passed 5,000 feet and with no sign of a let up. Despite the unnerving speed, it was remarkably quiet inside his cocoon, and smooth too. All of a sudden, Richard sensed a trajectory change and strained to raise his head in order to monitor his progress on the instrument panel. Pull up any time now, he thought, as the electronic altimeter indicated 4,000 feet and then, within a second or so, 3,000.

  As it passed 2,000 feet, however, and much to his relief, he felt a violent shudder as the stub wings deployed and then the noise from outside grew substantially louder. Immediately the rate of decent was arrested and he sensed minute changes of direction, too.