Nodding, Salazar said, “I suppose I can't argue with your reasoning. Get on board and start the launch sequence. I'll be up in a minute.”
“Right,” Lombardo said, as Carpenter looked on.
“Request permission to take the third seat,” Carpenter said.
“This is a military expedition, Lieutenant, not a scientific one.”
“I wear the same uniform that you do, Captain,” she replied, her eyes cold, “and I couldn't disagree with you more. Our ultimate objective is to find the location of the wormhole network. We're not going to do that sitting here on the plain. I should have gone with Clarke and Mortimer on the first expedition, and I have no intention of being left behind again.”
“Last time I checked, I was in command here,” Salazar said with a wry smile.
Carpenter glanced at Harper, then said, “I know why Kris is so determined to go, and so do you.” Raising a hand, she added, “I agree with you that she can't, but that just means that I must. We're all thinking the same thing, that altering a distress transporter takes command-level access.”
“Clarke had such access,” Salazar said. He paused, then said, “You think it was Captain Orlova, don't you.”
“I think all three of us are thinking that,” Carpenter replied, as the flyer's engine noisily burst into life, the turboprops slowly rotating as power fed into the system. “I served with her for years, Pavel, and I owe her my life. Never mind the science. I have to go.”
Salazar looked at Harper, then nodded, and said, “Take the observer's position. No equipment, though, and despite appearances, I'm not desperate to commit suicide today. We only land if I think it safe to do so. Otherwise we'll just make one high pass and come right home.”
“Understood,” she said, a beaming smile on her face, as she raced towards the flyer, and climbed into the cramped cockpit. Salazar watched her go, then turned back to Harper, her face a mix of concern and anger.
“Pavel…,” she began.
“Kris, if it wasn't for your leg, you'd be in that place yourself. You can't go. Besides, I'm going to need someone to keep Francis on the straight and narrow, and you're best qualified for the job.” He gestured at the rear of the field, a collection of components gathered together, a pair of technicians slowly working on the assembly. “See what you can do to speed up construction on Flyer Three. We might need it, if something goes wrong.”
“Aren't you going to call Max yourself?”
“Not until we're in the air,” he replied with a smile. “Doubtless he'll have a thousand good reasons why this is the worst idea I've ever had, and he might be able to dig something out of the field regulations to back him up. Probably better to just present him with a fait accompli.” His face grew serious for a moment, and he continued, “As soon as I'm in the air, I want you to pull back the scouting teams. I want everyone to stay close to home.”
“You think we might be in trouble?”
“I can't take that risk.” Gesturing around the camp, he added, “I want all hands prepared to evacuate in thirty minutes if I give the word. Get any equipment we don't absolutely need back to Alamo, and the same goes for personnel. Strip right down to the minimum.”
“Understood,” she replied. “Don't worry, Pavel, I'll keep the home fires burning for you, but I want to make something perfectly clear.” Pointing a finger at him, she continued, “I am not leaving you behind on this Sphere. You got that? If I have to walk out there to bring you home, I will do it. So don't bother giving me an order that I'm going to disobey. Either both of us make it home or neither of us do.”
Reaching around for a hug, Salazar replied, “Understood. And I really would rather you were with me on this one. With all due respect to Lombardo and Carpenter...”
“Susan's a good field hand,” she said. “She knows how to handle herself, and she knows when she has to put down her sensor rig and pick up a pistol. Keep your transmitter open, and make sure you keep us informed. Or I'll have to improvise some sort of daring rescue mission, and I don't think either of us want that.”
He nodded, and said, “Just remember that Max is in command. He gets the final say.” He looked into her eyes, and added, “That's one of those orders you have no intention of obeying, isn't it.”
“You're getting the idea.” Releasing him from her grip, she said, “Get going. And good hunting, Pavel.” As he walked away, she added, “Give my best to Captain Orlova when you see her. Assuming it is her out there.”
“I will,” he replied. “I will.” With one last look back at her, he walked across the field with long strides, pulling himself into the cramped confines of the flyer's cockpit. Lombardo was already settled into the co-pilot's seat, preparing for launch. The consoles were a mass of reassuring green lights, and he settled down at the controls, sliding his command datarod into position to set the instruments and readouts to his personal specification, customized to his needs.
“She's ready to go,” Lombardo said. “Engines at full power, solar cells engaged and charging. We're good for a hundred thousand miles at this weight, as long as you nurse her.”
“All set back here,” Carpenter added. “Sensors activated, data feeds flooding in, and I've set up a data dump back to Alamo's database. If anything happens to us, they'll be able to watch in real time.”
“Let's hope we don't give them the chance,” Lombardo said. “We're ready to launch, Captain. Atmospheric conditions are good.”
“Right,” Salazar said. “Engines to full power.” He reached down for the throttle, one hand on the controls, and eased the flyer to maximum thrust, bouncing across the field as he gathered speed, easing the craft gently into the sky. On either side, the wings caught the wind, and he gave the controls a quick, cautious tug, the nose rising, landing gear clearing the ground as the altimeter rose from its track.
“All good,” Lombardo said. “Nice, clean takeoff.” Reaching across to the navigation computer, he said, “Make heading one-one-three, at fifty thousand feet.”
“Roger,” Salazar replied, smoothly bringing the flyer around in a long, lazy arc. “Bringing her to target altitude. Conditions perfect.” Glancing across at Lombardo, he added, “You really built a beauty here, Art.”
“Compliments will get you everywhere, skipper,” he replied. “I've got the autopilot locked in if you want to let the computer handle it.” One glance at Salazar answered his question, and he continued, “Though I think it can wait a bit.”
Nodding, Salazar said, “I want to get the feel of her for a while, at least until we reach target altitude.” As the flyer rose into the sky, passing through the clouds for a brief moment, he added, “Coming up to five hundred miles an hour at ninety percent throttle. I'm going to hold her there for a while, let everything settle down.”
“Cruising speed,” Lombardo said. “Nice and smooth. Let's hope it stays that way.”
“It should,” Carpenter replied. “For at least another twelve hours or so.” She glanced at her communications panel, and added, “Signal from Alamo, sir. I think Lieutenant Francis wants to talk to you.”
With a grimace, Salazar said, “You'd better take the controls for a moment, Art. I think we're about to hit some turbulence. Metaphorically only, I hope.”
“Roger,” Lombardo replied with a smile. “I have the controls.”
Reaching for a headset, Salazar slid it into place, then tapped a button, saying, “Captain Salazar here, Alamo. Go ahead.”
Chapter 2
Clarke trudged across the desert, sweat pouring from his forehead, salt fire into his wound. The pain was growing worse by the moment, every step a bitter agony, the last of his energy draining away as he continued his endless slog. He glanced up at the sky, at the sun burning down on him, praying for the return of the darkness, a respite from the endless heat, however brief. Rubbing his aching hand across his face, smeared in grime and sweat, he
pressed on towards his unknown objective.
The silver bullet had come from somewhere up ahead, somewhere by the mountains that loomed before him. That much he knew. At his belt remained a pistol with three bullets, scavenged from the remnants of the battle, the destruction of the flyer. He looked up again, his eyes sweeping the sky. Alamo had a second flyer, and he knew that someone would come for him sooner or later. If he'd followed the usual survival drill, he'd have remained with the ruins of his craft, but that would have only lured his rescuers into a trap.
Besides, two of his comrades had been captured, and he had to follow the trail while he could, forge ahead towards his objective, however desperate his situation was. He was the only chance that Mortimer and Orlova had for rescue, and he couldn't let them down. Even if every pace was another step through hell. When he'd flown over the desert, he'd idly wondered what it would be like to walk across it, a terrain that he had never experienced. All of this was new to him. Born on Mars, he'd spent his life in a series of ever-larger domes, only a few brief excursions on inhabitable planets since he'd joined Alamo, and nothing like this.
He reached down for his canteen, giving it an experimental shake. One more piece of salvage, but there was only enough for a single, desperate gulp. He paused for a long moment, wondering whether he dared risk it, but his raging thirst won the day, and he drained the last of it , sweet water briefly rushing across his tongue, giving a momentary burst of life to his senses.
But the moment was fleeting, and as he pressed on across the desert, a feeling of desperate dread began to run through him. He had been insane to attempt this, and increasingly, he knew it. He didn't even have a good idea of how far he'd traveled. Eighty miles to his goal, he had estimated, but it might as well be on the far side of the sphere. The mountains didn't seem to get any larger, still as far into the distance as they had been before.
Still he trudged on, looking up one more time, catching sight of a dark sphere shooting across the sky, his eyes widening at the sight. Alamo's sensors had detected what could only be described as moons, thousands of them, none larger than a few kilometers, orbiting just above the thin atmosphere. The Neander had described them as roosts, had claimed that they were inaccessible, the home of some strange beings beyond their understanding.
This whole sphere was beyond his understanding. A technology that the Triplanetary Confederation could only dream of, demonstrating a mastery of controlled gravity that the best scientists of explored space had believed impossible. And yet, it was here, in all its wonder and glory.
Not that it mattered. Desert was desert, and sand was sand, and it seemed to reach out at him as he took another desperate step, staggering on his feet. Finally, the next step was his last, and he crashed down into the ground, the last of his energy spent, the endless heat still burning down on him. He crawled on, dragging himself over the dunes with the last of his will, but he knew that he was doomed to die here, alone in this wasteland.
Then, in the distance, he saw something. A dark shape moving towards him, walking steadily in his direction. He reached for his pistol, his sweat-laden hands fumbling with his holster as he struggled to draw it, to line a bead on the figure. It couldn't be anyone from Alamo, and if any of Monitor's crew had been in the area, Orlova would have told him. That limited the options down to a distressing few.
A part of him wanted to just admit defeat, to surrender to the inevitable. He was as good as dead now, and if he wasn't captured, his bones would rot in the desert for the rest of time. Still, he couldn't just yield without a fight, and with an effort, he leveled his pistol at the implacably approaching figure, trying to line up a shot.
“Don't shoot,” the figure said, in oddly-accented English. “Not if you want to live. I could have killed you at any time in the last twenty minutes if I'd wanted to. And you stick out like a sore thumb. The only reason our mutual friends haven't killed you is that they're going to let the desert do it for you.”
“Who are you?” Clarke asked. “Are you from Monitor?”
“Never heard of it,” the figure said. “My name is Jimmy. That will have to do for now.” He paused, then asked, “Are you going to lose the gun? I'm beginning to feel that you don't want me around.” Continuing his advance, he added, “Look at it this way. You don't have anything to lose by trusting me, and I'm on your side.”
Taking a deep breath, Clarke released his grip on his pistol, his vision starting to blur, and he collapsed into the sand. The figure raced towards him, catching him as he slumped into the ground. He felt the taste of water on his lips, his eyes opening to see Jimmy tipping a canteen into his mouth in quick gulps, the precious liquid running down his chin.
“Plenty more where that came from. My buggy's just over the next rise. As I said, I've been watching you for a while.” Gesturing at the mountains, he added, “You'd never have made it. You're still seventy miles from your target.”
“Seventy miles?” Clarke asked.
“This place is hell, kid. Or it will do, until something worse comes along. Man was not meant to live here. I've managed to find a way to survive, but that's it.” He paused, then asked, “Have you got friends out there? Someone on the way?”
“I sent a distress signal. That's what they homed in on.” Taking another drink of water, he asked, “Who were they?”
“Never mind that now,” Jimmy replied. “Do you think that help is on the way?”
“Probably. Alamo had a second flyer.” He glanced down at his watch, and said, “It's been six hours since I crashed. If I know Captain Salazar, he'll have been in the air in minutes. Say six, seven hours before someone shows up.”
“Can they take both of us?”
“I guess so, but I have two friends out there. I've got to get them back.”
Shaking his head, Jimmy replied, “I'll patch you up, and take you somewhere safe. I have a laser transmitter. We can contact your friends as soon as they come into view, without anyone else overhearing us. It's the best chance you've got, kid, and it'll cost you an extra ticket out of here.”
“Not without Captain Orlova and Ronnie.”
“Kid, I'm not going to put my life on the line to rescue your girlfriend. Odds are that she's already dead anyway. Hell, that would be for the best, if my guess is right.”
Reaching up to Jimmy, Clarke asked, “What do you mean?”
“You think those bastards are running around out here for fun? I've seen what they do to their prisoners first hand.” Rising to his feet, Jimmy said, “Tell me something. Have you got a spare army lying around somewhere, and transport to move it into position? Because that's what it will take to rescue your people now. You were the lucky one. You survived. Seems a shame to waste it.”
“I'm not leaving without my shipmates. We don't leave anyone behind.”
“They'll kill you. And maybe worse. And I'll tell you this now, kid. You'll be doing it alone.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, he added, “What's the point in throwing away your life? You won't even get through the outer perimeter.”
Rising to his feet with an effort, Clarke asked, “Was I heading in the right direction?”
“Roughly.”
“Seventy miles, you said.”
“You won't make seven miles, never mind seventy.”
“Thanks for the water,” Clarke replied, taking an uncertain step forward. “And for the directions. But I have no intention of leaving my friends to die, no matter what the risk to myself. They'd take the same chance for me, and I'm not going to let them down.” He looked across at Jimmy, and replied with a smile, “You could wish me luck.”
“What would be the point?” he replied. “You'll only be wasting it, and I might need it more than you will if you bring those bastards out here. Push it any harder, and they'll send someone after you. A sniper could nail you to the deck in a second, and you'd never even know that it happened.”
/> “I'm just going to have to take that risk,” Clarke said, walking away from Jimmy, his eyes locked once more on his goal. Behind him, the other man watched for a long minute, waiting as Clarke took a series of faltering steps, then finally walked towards him.
“Wait a minute,” he said with a sigh. “Look, I'll make a deal with you. Right now you don't stand a chance of making it over the next ridge, never mind to the mountains. Let me take you back to my bunker. You can have something to eat, I can take a proper look at that wound on your forehead, and you can get some sleep.” Gesturing at the pistol, he added, “I might even be able to give you something with a little more bite than that pea-shooter.”
“I'm not abandoning my friends.”
“I'll get you as close as I can,” Jimmy replied. “In exchange, you see that I get safe passage away from here. And I won't be going with you into the lion's den. You get to do that yourself. But I will make sure that you have a faint chance of living through the attempt, even if I think you are a fool to try.” He paused, then said, “As things stand, you don't have a hope.”
“If this is a trick...”
“I could have killed you a dozen times already. I still could. If this is a trick, you're a dead man already.”
“Good point.” Looking out at the mountains, he added, “I want a full run-down on the layout of that place, and I want a full explanation of what you are doing out here. Neither of these are optional. Either you tell me everything, or we don't have a deal.”
“For someone holding a busted flush, you seem really eager to gamble.”
“Take the offer or leave it. Your call.”
“I don't have any more choice than you. Stay here and sit down. I'll go and bring the buggy over here. Don't take this the wrong way, but I've seen guinea pigs with more fight in them.”
Clarke nodded, dropping down into the sand, and Jimmy walked back over the ridge, tossing a canteen of water at him as he departed. Taking a deep drink, he realized there was something poking into his leg, some sharp object half-buried in the ground, and he shifted around to spot a white, gleaming rock beneath him.
Secrets of the Sphere (Battlecruiser Alamo Book 27) Page 2
