Black Box

by Ivan Turner

  He did a decent job of disguising the turmoil going on inside his head. As they approached Walker’s landing site, they could hear the humming engine of the rumbler. Fred MacDonald’s voice was clear over the sound, issuing orders. Bonamo called a halt so he could listen but the distance was too great and the background noise too much for him to decipher the words. The jungle, as it was, didn’t provide them much in the way of cover. The trees weren’t real trees. Their stems were soft and pliable. The leaves were large and camouflaging but if they were spotted then bullets would tear through the foliage easily enough. Still, they had to approach.

  Icknor was at the Einstein’s hatch, setting a charge. The others were spread out around the ship. Irvin, Knudson, and Goldfarb were missing, presumably behind the ship, covering an emergency escape hatch. Walker and his crew would be wedged in.

  Bonamo turned to Burbank and whispered so low that she could hardly hear him. “Circle around back and keep to cover. Take aim and wait to hear my shot. When you do, open fire. The first shot has to be a kill shot. After that just make sure you hit the other two guys.”

  Cabrera grabbed his arm tightly. “You’re going to kill them? Just like that?”

  “Shhh! The captain’s orders were very specific.”

  “I won’t sink to that level.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  Swallowing hard, Burbank headed away from the two of them, moving slowly. Bonamo had to wait for her to get into position so he drew up some estimates in his head about how long it would take her, at her present rate of speed, to reach the far end of the ship once she was out of sight. Meanwhile, Icknor had retreated from the hatch and the flanking soldiers had taken cover by the landing struts. On a signal from MacDonald, Icknor hit the button on his remote and the charges detonated. The hatch blew apart like so much tin foil. MacDonald signaled to his people.

  Leveling his weapon, Bonamo made a choice. He made the wrong choice, but he made a choice just the same. All the time, he had been wondering whether to aim for MacDonald or Alraune. MacDonald was in charge. Even Tedesco, who stood timidly by the rumbler did not give any orders during the operation. After all, it was a combat operation and she was not combat trained. So taking out MacDonald might have the effect of damaging the command structure and taking the wind out of their sails. Rodrigo was nowhere in sight and it hadn’t taken Bonamo long to reason that it was she who’d gone to meet Beckett. Alraune, on the other hand, was a ridiculously good shot and, therefore, the greatest danger. If he could eliminate her first, their odds in the upcoming firefight would be that much greater.

  He chose to fire at Alraune. He was not the best marksman on the ship, probably ranked somewhere near the bottom. But he was skilled enough to take aim and hit an unsuspecting target. The bullet hit her square, her head snapping back with the impact, her body following a split second behind.

  She was to the right of the blown hatch, approaching with her face to Bonamo and just ahead of Rafferty. On the other side stood Yamata, with Icknor ahead of him. By the motion of her body, it was easy for them to identify Bonamo’s position.

  Bonamo had time for one more shot, but no time to choose and no time to take aim. His bullet took Rafferty in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

  “Sniper!” shouted MacDonald.

  “Move!” Bonamo hissed at Cabrera and started off into the shrubs.

  Burbank’s shot came a little late. Irvin shouted a warning and then all hell broke loose. MacDonald took off at a run towards the back of the ship. While he did so, he shouted orders at his three remaining soldiers up front. Yamata turned and began spraying bullets into the trees. Icknor charged the blown hatch. Tedesco sought cover behind the rumbler. It was not what Bonamo had wanted. Sniper shots tended to cause confusion, but MacDonald was too rock steady to be shaken by something as innocuous as a dead soldier. He adjusted his plan of attack in less time than it had taken for Bonamo to decide who to shoot.

  Halfway toward the back of the ship they met up with Burbank. There was sweat on her face and on her hair and she clutched her gun the way a mother clutches a baby. Bonamo shot her a look but it was clear why she hadn’t followed the plan. Her shot had missed. Either she hadn’t been in position when Bonamo had fired or she had hesitated. Either way, none of the three foot soldiers at the back of the ship had been killed or even wounded. Bonamo, Burbank, and Cabrera had now been identified and were on the run. Despite taking down their enemy’s best marksman, they were at a tremendous disadvantage.

  Crouching low, adjusting the position of his rifle, Bonamo fixed his gaze on the ship. He ordered Cabrera deeper into the trees and Burbank to his flank. There was nothing else to do. They could all retreat and survive but then their mission would be a failure. When the captain had ordered him to prevent the black box from being launched he had known that it was critical to the lives of everyone on board the Einstein. Somehow the Einstein had come forward 200 years into the present day. Somehow, that black box had gone back through time and floated in space for 200 years, eventually finding its way home. Somehow those two events coincided to produce a scenario where Captain Beckett’s mutinous infantry slaughtered the Earth’s greatest pioneers.

  That did not sit well with Kevin Bonamo.

  Doing a quick calculation, he summed up the situation. Icknor had gone into the Einstein. Rafferty was gone. Despite his wounded shoulder, he must have gone into the ship as well. Tedesco was probably sticking close to the rumbler, while Yamata would be keeping an eye out for Bonamo’s return. MacDonald and one person from the rear of the ship would have likely moved into the trees in search of the snipers. That left two people guarding the escape hatch. Two people out of Irvin, Knudson, and Goldfarb. Knudson was good in a fight but prone to recklessness. Irvin was a solid soldier, well on the track to being an officer. Goldfarb was average. Bonamo figured that MacDonald would have chosen Goldfarb, leaving Irvin at the rear to keep Knudson in line.

  Despite wanting to move fast, Bonamo knew that he had to be extremely cautious when dealing with MacDonald. He needed to outwit the older man. In a fair fight they’d get their asses kicked. Doubling back toward the front of the ship, he signaled Burbank to stay behind a bit. If they could avoid MacDonald at least until they were able to get inside the Einstein, they’d have a much better chance of success.

  As they came around the front, Bonamo could see Yamata. His gun was quiet now, but he was alert for any movement in the trees. Bonamo got down on his belly and aimed his rifle. With a hand signal, he sent Burbank on her way. She was bait. And Yamata took the bait. He either saw her or heard her and he swung away from Bonamo, who fired off a clean shot, taking Yamata in the chest. That gave him about four seconds to rush the ship.

  “Let’s go!” he cried, leaping to his feet.

  The two of them charged the hatch, Bonamo never forgetting about Tedesco by the rumbler. He opened fire on her as he ran, none of his bullets finding their mark. As they passed Yamata’s prone form, he could tell that his shot hadn’t done anything more than knock the wind out of the soldier. His body armor had been more than enough to protect him from damage. There was no time to finish the job. Already, they could hear MacDonald rushing from the trees. They cleared the hatch just as he took aim and began to fire on them.

  Once inside the ship, the walls closed around them. There was no way to seal off the hatch so they needed to move quickly. Situated in the middle of the long shuttle’s fuselage, the hatch opened up into a small airlock, which opened up into a narrow corridor running both left and right. The ship’s nose was to the left. Bonamo took off at a run, Burbank hot on his heels.

  Halfway down the passageway, squeezed into a tiny alcove, they encountered three people, two women and one man. Each was dressed in a pair of off-white pants and a green T-shirt. Sewn into the right thigh of the pants was an American Flag. When they saw Bonamo and Burbank, they stopped up short, a look of panic crossing their faces.

  Bonamo had to take a minute
to breathe. He had seen these people before. Their smiling faces had dotted the pages of textbooks and magazines for as long as he could remember. Geoff Markakis was a solidly built man with a round dark face and what always looked like a four day growth of beard. He was shorter than Bonamo expected. Alice Roberts stood half a head taller than the pilot. Her hair was pulled back tight and her brown face had this papery look to it that seemed to add years to her frightened eyes. Finally, there was Marcia Thomas, with her head almost shaved down completely and her stern features that tried ever so hard to combat her terror. These regular people were some of Earth’s greatest heroes.

  “We’re friends,” Bonamo cried, edging past them. “Is there anyone else down there?”

  They hesitated momentarily, unsure of the truth. Finally, one of them, Marcia Thomas, screwed up the courage to speak. “The Colonel,” she said. “He went to launch the black box.”

  “Protect them,” Bonamo ordered Burbank and took off toward the cockpit.

  In the two seconds it took for him to reach the cockpit at a dead run, Bonamo was suddenly aware that he was defining his career here right at its very beginning. The difficult decisions that he was making were not unlike the very difficult decision made by a young Captain Ted Beckett ten years before. He was clearly violating the orders of the Admiralty even though those orders had never been made known to him. He was standing up against his own people for something that he believed was right. When it was all over, he would understand what his father had meant about keeping your mouth shut and your nose clean.

  Just outside the small cockpit was a control center. There was no door; the corridor just opened naturally into it. Four stations were spaciously situated, each with a stationary computer access terminal and good reach to the wall consoles. There wasn’t a lot of walking space, but there was enough. Walker was on the floor, a gash running across his forehead. He seemed to be alive. Roger Rhodes, the Einstein’s doctor, was hovering over him, tending to the wound with shaky hands. As for Icknor and Rafferty, they were just heading out as Bonamo was heading in.

  “You shot Lita,” Icknor said, venom in his voice.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Rafferty said, his square jaw working out the tension as he spoke. There was a tear in the shoulder of his uniform and the whole area was dark and wet.

  Icknor began to bring his weapon up but Bonamo’s was already raised. He fired and the blast rocked the small space. All three men were temporarily deafened, which was good because they couldn’t hear Icknor’s screams as the bullets tore into his chest and midsection. At that range, even the armor was no help. It was a slow death for poor Icknor. One bullet nicked his heart which created a blood leak. Another perforated his small intestine which spilled detritus into the surrounding regions of his body. A third bullet simply wedged itself in his abdomen, embedded in a rib and scraping against his lung.

  Guns are horrible things.

  Rafferty launched himself at Bonamo, recognizing the futility of trying to get off a shot now. Bonamo was not ready for him. He was pushed back against the uneven bulkhead. A support strut slammed into his spine and he felt his legs go completely numb. He crumpled like a ragdoll and didn’t even notice the three kicks Rafferty landed just to make sure his opponent wouldn’t come and follow him down toward the others.

  And then that was where he went. To finish the job.

  It’s So Hard To Find Good Help

  When MacDonald saw that his three soldiers were unhurt, he left them with their previous orders and started back toward the front of the ship. Initially he was scanning the trees for any sign of the snipers, but he heard them bolt and knew it was safe to charge. He saw them as they made for the hatch and he opened fire, chiding himself for doing so. Every shot missed, as he knew they would, and he had wasted precious seconds taking aim.

  Yamata was beginning to stir as MacDonald approached.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Yamata cursed at him.

  “Lieutenant,” MacDonald began, then stopped. There was a foreign sound coming out of the jungle. Tedesco must have heard it as well because she turned to look.

  At that moment, the airbike carrying Ted Beckett came shooting out from between the trees. He clipped Tedesco on the side and she tumbled into the rumbler and went to the ground. She heard, more than felt her arm snap and was waiting quietly for the pain to make its arrival.

  MacDonald, for his part, did not wish to face an incensed Beckett. Clearly he had bested Rodrigo which meant he was in a formidable mind set. MacDonald would not bother to challenge that. Instead, he would finish the pivotal job assigned to him. He made quickly for the hatch. Beckett pursued, but there was enough distance between them so that MacDonald was able to just scramble through the blast hole safely.

  Coming up the corridor, he spied Rafferty. The man was huffing and puffing, holding his gun in the wrong hand. Clearly the wound to his shoulder was bothering him.

  “Ken?” came a small voice from a tiny niche somewhere between the two of them.

  Suddenly, Burbank poked her head out of the niche and around the corner. When she saw Rafferty, she slipped back inside. MacDonald heard her whisper, “I may need help.”

  MacDonald didn’t waste any time. He pushed forward and grabbed her around the throat, pulling her gun away before forcing her to the ground. Rationally, he knew he didn’t have a lot of time. Beckett was maybe ninety seconds behind him. Yet, having her down, his fingers clenched around her windpipe, felt so right. He desperately wanted to finish this.

  Then someone was on his shoulders. It was Markakis. The stocky Greek pilot was strong and his fear seemed to have fled. He tried to get an arm around MacDonad’s neck, but MacDonald was a seasoned combat veteran. He gave up his entertainment quickly and turned his attention to the attack. Markakis was no match for him. Even as his two crewmates tried to intervene, MacDonald slammed one in the face with his elbow and shoved Markakis into the other. Defeated, they huddled back into niche as Rafferty awkwardly raised his rifle in their direction.

  The looks on their faces showed only fear. Suddenly MacDonald felt nothing but disdain for them. Were they children? These were supposed to be pioneers, the greatest of all of the human explorers history had to offer. What had they thought they would find out in space? Chocolate and lollipops?

  But there was no time for reproach.

  “Gimme that,” he said, grabbing the rifle away from Rafferty. Then, without a second thought, he sprayed the entire niche with bullets.

  The Black Box

  Beckett charged into the ship as the sound of gunfire reverberated off of the bulkheads. He shouted out MacDonald’s name but his cries were lost in the noise. He came barreling down the corridor as fast as he could, just in time to see MacDonald finish his slaughter and scramble away toward the forward part of the ship. Rafferty caught sight of him instantly and went for Burbank’s weapon, laying on the deck. Beckett brought his own gun to bear but there wasn’t time to take aim. Rafferty crawled across the deck, using the bodies for cover.

  Beckett was incensed. He slipped and slid on the blood spatters, as he pushed forward, heedless of the danger Rafferty presented. There was no time to lose. By now, Walker would be ready to launch the black box, ready to start the cycle all over again. And right now, two hundred years from two hundred years ago, locked in an endless cycle of futility, Captain Ted Beckett would try and fail.

  Which was at least better than failing to try.

  Rafferty jumped up, his face and uniform covered in the blood of heroes. Had he not leaped right into Beckett’s line of fire, the captain would never have had a shot. It was pure luck, good for one, bad for the other. Beckett fired immediately, cutting Rafferty down in an instant and leaving him to lay amidst the rest of the dead.

  “MacDonald!” he screamed down the hallway as he charged forward.

  “You can’t stop it, Beckett,” MacDonald called back. Beckett came to a quick halt. Just ahead, in the control room, MacDo
nald was waiting, his gun aimed forward. “It’s already happening.”

  From his position, Beckett could see the four chairs and their consoles. He could see Bonamo lying on the floor, not dead, not even unconscious, just unable to move. Another body was next to his. It was Roger Rhodes. There was no sign of Colonel Nicholas Walker, though. Of course not. He was behind the closed door of the cockpit, recording his final message, getting ready.

  In the three seconds between coming into the room and recognizing where the Colonel had gone and what he was doing, Beckett made a choice. He had two options, one of which was self serving and the other heroic, if futile. He could charge MacDonald, engage him in combat and unleash all of his fury on this animal the Space Force had the temerity to call a soldier. Or he could call out to Walker, try and prevent him from launching the black box and hopefully save the lives of these poor pioneers.

  Beckett chose to be self serving. He wanted to get his hands on MacDonald so badly that he let go of any altruistic motive and bolted forward just as the foot soldier brought his weapon to bear.

  MacDonald fired and the bullet tore into Beckett’s gun shoulder. Another second’s hesitation and it would have gone into his chest, pierced his heart, and ended his life. Beckett ignored the wound, ducking under MacDonald’s aim and barreling into him. Together the two men went to the floor, their arms and legs banging against the consoles and the chairs, all weapons lost in the melee. There was no room for a brawl, yet brawl they did. Any pain that might have sprung up in the captain’s shoulder was forestalled by the adrenaline rush that came with the battle. The men fought like animals. There was no finesse, no grace, no dance. They scratched and bit and tore at each other like ferocious beasts, all hate and venom. MacDonald grunted and cursed while Beckett repeated die, die, die, over and over again.