Between the suits chafing their bodies with each lurch of the SARs, whole limbs asleep from a lack of proper circulation, and a layer of painfully inflamed skin between their legs and armpits, the entire company was functioning at their absolute limits.
After ten minutes outside the vehicles, Dimitriov ordered everyone back in to resume the trip, but she found that not everyone was as motivated as was she to continue.
“Colonel Dimitriov, may I have a word?” said a timid voice over her suit’s common communication’s circuit. Since everyone could hear the transmission, they froze instantly where they stood.
“Who said that?” she replied harshly.
“It was I, Comrade Leader,” said a suited figure raising his hand into the air, near SAR 4, three SARs behind the lead vehicle.
Dimitriov paced quickly to the figure, Leonid Kravchenko following closely on her heels. “What is it?” Dimitriov rasped to the suited individual who stood rigidly before her. His nametag read, “Molosovich”.
She could see the man’s eyes blinking in desperation behind the bulbous helmet’s visor. His mouth twitched but apparently could not form words as he stared back at her in fear.
“Speak!” she commanded sharply, staring holes through Molosovich.
“Comrade Leader, I er, need to inform you of a piece of critical life support system information, if you would please…” Molosovich stammered.
Dimitriov looked back at him with supreme annoyance and flexed the jaw muscles of her firm and hateful face. “What…” she rasped.
“Comrade Leader,” he stuttered, “I have made careful calculations and the carbon dioxide scrubbers are failing in each SAR. If we continue at this pace, we will all be dead before we arrive at our destination. Each of us in the rear five vehicles is all suffering from severe hypercapnia, even now.”
Dimitriov’s expression changed immediately from annoyance to rage and then to deep thought. After ten seconds of silence, she turned and looked at Kravchenko. “Is this true?” she asked him bluntly.
Without hesitation, Kravchenko replied, “No; he is lying!”
Instantly, Dimitriov pulled a Makarov semi-automatic pistol from her suit and pointed it at the visor of Molosovich who shut his eyes tightly.
“Stop, Colonel Dimitriov! He is correct, I can assure you,” said a strained voice from the suit’s communications circuit.
“Who is now speaking?” Dimitriov demanded, lowering her weapon from Molosovich’s face.
“It is I, Colonel; Valentin Anatoliy.”
“Come here to me immediately,” she demanded.
Anatoliy shuffled as quickly as he could to stand beside her. He had been riding in SAR number three. “Yes, Comrade, he is correct. All of the systems of the rear five SARS are overloaded. None of the occupants can survive the journey. I have personally validated the calculations. All of us are suffering the same symptoms of hypercapnia. Before night falls, there will not be any among us in the five rear vehicles capable of safely piloting for another sol.”
“Is this correct?” she barked again at Kravchenko. He looked back at her as their eyes met through their visors.
“Of course, Colonel Dimitriov. I verified his calculations in my head just as he was speaking! I am afraid it is so.” They all knew it was a pathetic, undisguised lie, but it was all part of the game called survival in the presence of an insane megalomaniac.
Dimitriov looked contemplative for just a moment, and then ordered, “Everyone stand behind their SARs. Quickly; I do not have all day! Do it now!”
In a few moments there was a cluster of six individuals standing behind each of the five rear SARs. As Dimitriov was closest to SAR four, she walked over to face Molosovich. Still holding her Makarov in her right fist, she looked him in the eye.
“I very much appreciate the courage it took to inform me of our plight, Comrade Molosovich.” Then, astonishingly, she smiled at him; a cold, sterile smile. “You have saved us from certain defeat before our enemies.”
“I… er, I thank you Comrade Leader…” Molosovich responded with an uncertain stutter in his voice.
“But I hate chronic complainers,” she said dropping her smile and raising her weapon to his face. She held it there a full two seconds before pulling the trigger and blowing Molosovich’s brains and large pieces of skull through the back of his helmet. His suit instantly evacuated as Molosovich’s lifeless body fell onto the sand covered rocks of the Martian desert.
Dimitriov then walked to the next SAR back and stood before the assembled group of six who waited for her, frozen and unmoving.
“Is anyone uncomfortable in this SAR?” she asked flatly.
No one said a word. No one dared to look at her through his or her bubbled visors.
“Very well, then,” she said mockingly, and then raised her Makarov to the side of the helmet of the suited figure closest to her. Without warning, she moved the barrel down below the helmet ring and pulled the trigger again, blowing a gaping hole in his neck, killing him instantly.
In the near vacuum of the rarified Martian air, no sound could travel, but they could all feel the strange thump of the vibration passing through their feet as he hit the ground and all watched as the victim’s body fluids bubbled and foamed into a ring of ice around his neck.
Dimitriov then walked back to SAR six, at the rear of the convoy. Kravchenko thought better of following her so closely this time and did not move. As she arrived at the rear of the convoy, she stood three meters from the assembled six individuals and asked, “Anyone have any problems here?”
No one moved. Dimitriov lifted her Makarov and pointed it in their general direction, with a slight waver from side to side. “Anyone want to volunteer to stop breathing in SAR 6 for the motherland or do I have to choose?”
It appeared that they had finally figured out Dimitriov’s purpose, and the group collectively looked like so many deer in the headlights of an oncoming monster truck. Instantly one of the suited figures stepped out from the pack and leapt at her, a long pipe gripped in his hand. In the Martian gravity, he was able to nearly fly a full two meters in the sky and came down toward her with gritted teeth and makeshift weapon raised.
Dimitriov simply stepped away at the last fraction of a second and allowed him to slide across the sand. The individual sprang into instant action, rolled deftly and expertly end over end then bounced to his feet, facing Dimitriov, rushing back again for the kill. Dimitriov calmly waited until he was just beyond arm’s length, raised her weapon and fired directly into the visor. Again, the odd vibration was followed by the instant deformation of a face into a fog of blood and bone which was being sucked out of the gaping hole into the angry, red desert.
Unmoved, Dimitriov turned and paced back toward SAR three as though she were in a great hurry, aimed in the general direction of the suited figures and fired. The bullet struck one of the members in the arm, but the evacuation of the suit was instantaneous and death followed in an explosion of air and fluids from the Soviet’s lungs as he fell to the sand. She then walked quickly back past the unmoving Kravchenko to SAR 2. The six suited figures looked at one another in a panic.
“We can take her!” one of them shouted. “We can take her; all of us together. We don’t have to die here!” he shouted. He looked at his companions who did not share his commitment. Indeed, it became instantly evident that as far as SAR two was concerned, the victim had just identified himself. As if to signal their unified resolve, they each began to point to the one who had just spoken, backing away from him.
The man suddenly found himself alone and facing a quickly approaching Dimitriov. Seeing the approach of certain death, he turned and broke into a run across the desert. Dimitriov watched him flee for a moment, then turned and walked toward her own vehicle. Once there, she stopped and turned again to face the fleeing form, running away as fast as he could into the Martian desert. Then, with flair, she slid her Makarov away into its hidden holster.
“Shall I pursue and
kill him?” Kravchenko asked, more out of begging an eager permission than from duty.
“No,” she replied as she watched the figure recede. “Before the sun sets tonight, he will wish he had allowed me to finish him off quickly. Besides,” she sneered, “we can collect his suit later and not have to make any repairs to it. And in the process, we save valuable ammunition.”
“Brilliant, of course, as always!” Kravchenko gushed with a sickening smile.
She turned and looked at the SARs and their crews standing rigidly in the ruddy sand and rocks. “Let’s move one,” she said to them all with a terrible resolve. “Now there will be more room and everyone should breathe easier until we arrive.”
40
he evening meal at BC1 was served hurriedly – mostly sandwiches and the enormously popular baked potato chips that Rat had invented from the CELSS garden. Many grabbed their allotment and took it directly to work with them. Peter, Ashley, Toon and Francis ate together in the Command Center.
“How’s goes the war, boss?” Toon asked Peter, stuffing his face with a huge bite of sandwich.
“We might just be ready for the earliest contact with the enemy any time tomorrow afternoon or later,” he noted, glancing up at the master clock glowing down on them with its three inch, bright LED numerals.
“Humph,” Francis grunted, his mouth stuffed with chips. But before he could clarify his thoughts, a sudden explosion of static and a voice in broken but distinct English came over the external communications speakers.
“BC1, this is Shturmovoi; do you read, over?”
Their faces and bodies froze for a long second and they looked at one another with wide eyes.
“I’ve got it,” Toon replied instantly, swinging around his chair at the console. “It’s a shortwave frequency.
“Shturmovoi, this is BC1; we read you loud and clear.”
“Tell them we’ll be on the line in one minute,” Francis said firmly.
Peter caught the unspoken imperative in his voice.
“Yes, tell him we need one minute,” Peter said.
“Why?” Toon asked, looking surprised.
“Toon, you and Ashley need to leave here for a few minutes. I’m sorry,” Francis said flatly, eyeing Peter and obviously taking the heat off of him for the social embarrassment.
Peter looked firmly at the clock so that he would not have to look at the others. “I’m sorry, but we’ve agreed that any significant finding will be held in check until we can evaluate it and announce it to everyone.”
“So we’re not a part of your inner sanctum?” Toon asked, his voice painted with surprise and hurt. Then, as if to underscore his point, he looked to Ashley. “Ashley, you’re not a part of the inner sanctum?”
“Toon, just shut up and get out,” Francis responded with pent up fatigue. “We really don’t need this right now,” he replied directly to Toon, not daring to look at Ashley.
Ashley rose slowly and wordlessly to leave. It was apparent that she did not fully understand what was happening, and that she was obviously somewhat hurt by being so abruptly shut out, but she trusted Peter explicitly and would never publicly challenge him.
“This sucks, you know that?” Toon replied in an uncharacteristic bark, and walked briskly out of the room.
“Do not, repeat, do not mention this outside of this room,” Peter said firmly to no one in particular.
As soon as they closed the door, Peter shook his head slowly, squinting his eyes. He was not so sure that he agreed with Francis at this point, and he almost called Ashley back into the room. But realizing that he would explain everything and apologize to her later, he focused on the present.
“Cue up the transmitter,” Peter replied in his own terse whisper.
“Shturmovoi, this is BC1; go ahead,” Francis said.
“BC1, this is the base Shturmovoi. We are calling to warn you of an imminent attack, repeat, an imminent attack...”
“Shturmovoi, do you have the capability of a link-up on a secure circuit?” Francis said, breaking into his announcement.
“Negative. Negative. But it does not matter. While we fully expect they will intercept this transmission, it does not matter. They do not have the capacity to return to Shturmovoi at this point and we are all hoping you will kill them upon their arrival there. It is our most sincere wish that they do not return here, ever.”
Peter and Francis looked at one another with total astonishment. Francis cupped the mike and verified the switch was on “mute”.
“They may be lying,” he whispered, although they both knew there was no possibility they could hear their conversation.
“Why?” Peter mouthed silently. Francis’ eyes darted about, and then he looked at Peter and simply shrugged.
“Shturmovoi, how many are in the convoy?” Francis asked, keying the mike back on.
“Six SARS and a total of 34 armed individuals departed here six sols ago. We did not contact you until now so that we could ensure they did not have enough power or consumables to return without replenishment. According to our satellite tracking, they will arrive there in roughly twenty-four hours from now. You must kill them all. You must show them no mercy. They will destroy you if you do not kill them all.”
Peter put his hand over the mike and looked at Francis. He blinked twice, thinking at utmost speed. Then he pulled the mike to himself and nodded for Francis to key the switch. “This is Peter Traynor, leader of the American base at BC1. Shturmovoi, tell me in the greatest detail about your situation and about your reasoning. If I catch you in any lie at all, I’ll send them back to arrest you; do you understand?”
Francis looked totally surprised at Peter, and shook his head as though he had been slapped. Then he managed a half-smile. “Well, I guess that’s one approach,” he said looking neutrally at Peter.
“Go on, Shturmovoi,” Peter ordered.
In the next ten minutes, the scientific contingent left behind to die at Shturmovoi unfolded their story of terror and certain death at the hands of Dimitriov and her deadly cluster of yes-men. When they finished, Peter sat silent for a full two minutes. Then he spoke back into the microphone.
“Shturmovoi, can you tell us if you have any knowledge of any of your operatives at work here?”
“Please amplify, BC1. Define ‘operatives’.”
“Spies,” Peter and Francis spoke together in unison.
A long period of silence followed, broken with a short reply, “No, we know of none. But then, we are just scientists and they tell us nothing.”
41
n the expanse of the Elysium desert, six SARs sat parked in a semi-circle facing northwest. An hour after sunset, in the center of the circle, 26 individuals in spacesuits sat about a cluster of bright lights, as though it were a camp fire, but they all sat in silence, daring to say nothing.
Just two hours before this, beginning in the rearmost vehicle, Dimitriov had allowed each member to pressurize the vehicle, remove their space suits and clean up, donning a new absorbent pad, one at a time. She did not allow this act out of mercy or kindness, things she had never felt, but because she, as well as the others, had developed such serious eruptive skin rashes that, had she not allowed this, they might not have been able to walk at all on the next, critical day. Besides, she reasoned, there were now enough life support gasses to waste on the process since five of the consumers were dead.
In the convoy’s first vehicle, three individuals sat listening intently to the end of a broadcast between the vermin Dimitriov thought she had exterminated and the quarry she now intended to kill. Moments after the last crewmember had completed his clean-up task, the broadcast ended. Dimitriov and her deputies listened inside the SAR as the scientists back at Shturmovoi related their findings to Peter and Francis at BC1. Kravchenko’s expression seemed to indicate he found it odd that she did not utter a single word at the end of the broadcast, but simply slipped her helmet over her spacesuit and without a word, began to pressurize. With no warning, sh
e sharply turned the dial to suck the air from the SAR into its storage container as Kravchenko and her deputy, Major Dybenko just barely managed to don their helmets in the last possible half-second. She then popped the hatch and strode into the darkness of the Martian desert. Dimitriov walked some thirty meters away and stood facing the direction of BC1 alone. No one dared approach her.
A full twenty minutes later, she abruptly turned and walked back to the assembled 26, seated around the light. As she approached, they all stood, totally out of fear. She stopped three meters from them as Kravchenko and Dybenko approached on her right and left, facing the others, but well out of her arm’s reach.
Calmly she addressed them. “Here on this planet, failure means a certain expectation of death. Today, I have experienced an enormous disappointment without precedence in the many years of my service to my country. Dybenko, will you please come over and face me,” she spoke to her deputy.
He approached her with the same wariness and reluctance that he had for each game of chess she forced him to suffer.
“Dybenko, it was ultimately your responsibility to render the staff at Shturmovoi ineffectual, was it not?” she asked calmly.
The many endless hours of manipulation by Dimitriov finally paid off for Dybenko as he quickly recognized her ploy and answered, “Why no; no it was not, Colonel Dimitriov. You asked me to assign it to a competent party, which was, as a matter of fact and record, Comrade Kravchenko, which I did,” he said, pointing at the now completely disheveled deputy on her right. “It is he who has failed you, not I, Colonel Dimitriov.”
“You are a lying dog! You are a lying whore dog…” Kravchenko savagely responded.
“Silence!” Dimitriov snapped.
She slowly withdrew her Makarov from her holster and handed it butt first to Dybenko. “You and you alone have failed, Major Dybenko. Now I expect you to do your duty as an example for all those who are assembled here.”
“What? …” Dybenko asked incredulously. “I have served my country faithfully, Colonel Dimitriov. You cannot mean this; you cannot…”
Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium Page 42
