Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (27 page)

The five men huddled together and retreated in unison. Richard, assuming the lead, scanned his immediate surroundings in the hope of finding something he could use as a weapon. His pistol was in his coat and that was hanging from a peg on the other side of the garage.

Thomas, alerted by the commotion, strode across and stood defiantly by the driver’s door. However, he promptly took several paces backwards as the huge hulk of the statue stepped into the doorway. It made an effort to stand and, in so doing, curled the roof of the van into an arch shape.

Amazingly, and fully aware of the restriction, the statue stepped down whilst still bent forwards at the waist; its feet made solid clunking sounds on the concrete. It took two paces forwards, stood to its full height and then turned its head gently in both directions, until it had looked over each shoulder in turn, an angle of more than two hundred degrees.

As if sensing movement through never-opening bronze-coloured eyelids, it seemed to take stock of its surroundings. After a few moments it assumed another position: its right hand punching through a sturdy roof member as if it was balsa wood. And then there it stood; much more than two metres tall and almost a metre across the shoulders; massive, armoured, ancient and absolutely motionless.

It was a minute before heart rates settled and almost two before anyone spoke and, as they did, tiny, almost imperceptible twitches of the statue’s head resulted.

“Look! It is true!” gasped Mubarakar in a forced whisper. “It stands legs astride, with one arm upwards as if holding a sword and the other across its body as if holding a shield . . . It stands like the great Colossus of Rhodes did . . . the great wonder . . . It claims its place in history!”

It was another minute before anyone dared to move. Finally, Richard, sensing the nature of the figure as non-aggressive, very warily walked across to it and stopped a few paces short. It was truly a remarkable feat of engineering, as not a blemish or wrinkle was apparent anywhere on its face, head or body.

Thomas, on hand, stepped closer still and extended his neck until the top of his head matched that of the statue. “Two point four two three seven metres tall, and judging by the reaction of the vehicle’s suspension, I would say it weighs in at approximately five hundred kilograms,” he informed. He stared at the statue’s face. “This machine and I . . . we’re . . . worlds apart, aren’t we?” There was admiration in his voice.

“You are positively primitive in comparison,” retorted Richard. There was an edge of irony in his tone. “And this machine could be seven thousand years old – it’s certainly been submerged in salt water for more than two thousand.” He looked at Thomas. “Now go over there and don’t move until I say so.”

The forlorn figure of Thomas walked head down towards the corner.

“Bloody support, you have got to be kidding,” mumbled Richard under his breath, and then returned his attention to the statue. “Can you understand me?” he asked in a raised voice. “Do you understand English?” There was no response. Richard turned to Mubarakar. “Professor, please, could you ask a few questions in Arabic and perhaps French? And any other language you or Hamid or anyone might know? Let’s see if we can communicate with it.”

The five men sat at the kitchen table drinking a fresh brew of mint tea and chatting. Richard checked the time and began mentally formulating his plan for the next day, as it was not only New Year’s Eve but also a full moon. Naomi flooded his thoughts.
If she does not show up for her duties inside the Great Pyramid tomorrow, then I will go and see Banou immediately, and coordinate that with Peter and the Royal Navy pilot.
He checked the time again – it was close to midnight.

“We can’t communicate with it; it seems to have adopted a default position, and there is little chance of it being moved like that,” commented Richard, joining the conversation again.

Mubarakar and Hamid nodded. “I think you are right, Richard,” concurred the Professor. “I think to communicate we need to speak in the language of the day – perhaps ancient Greek, perhaps an older tongue.”

“Ancient Greek might work, Professor; more than likely, however, it would be the language of the old people. The thing is, being able to read the old text is one thing; being able to sound the words, to speak it coherently so as to be understood, that is something else entirely. And there would be dialects too, probable Semitic in nature. It’s a long lost skill. Logically, as Eridu was the first recorded city in history, the ancient language believed to have been spoken there may also work. The only other possibility I can think of is ancient Egyptian of the First Dynasty. There was some commonality,” added Richard, “I found that during my studies.”

“I tried Coptic, but it did not work,” said Hamid, in a resigned fashion.

“Our only hope is Naomi; she
sees
languages as colours. It’s incredible.” Richard paused and took stock of the situation. “Professor, could Abdel take me to Giza tomorrow, please, undercover? I’m going to stake out the Great Pyramid from midday until dawn on the first of January. Looks like I’ll be seeing in the New Year with the Bedouins. If she doesn’t show, I’ll need to get back to the El Al Shalamin airbase sharpish.”

“Of course, my young friend . . . I will arrange a service vehicle from the Antiquities Commission. Wear a dark djellaba – several are hanging in the cloakroom. Pull the hood well over your face. You will pass as a local. This is better, as there are precious few tourists these days. Abdel knows the way; there is but one safe access to the monuments. Find a place to hide and do not stray; the desert is a sea of quicksand – it still claims lives. At first light on the day after tomorrow he will return. I will remain here with Hamid and the statue until I hear from you. Abdel will call me if you go directly to the airbase. Do you agree?”

Richard nodded.

The Professor rubbed his reddened eyes. “What a day it has been . . . but for me at last it is over. The maid has marked your rooms, you will see. I bid you all good night.” Professor Mubarakar stood wearily and turned to leave the room.

“Yeah, time for me to turn in, too,” said Richard. He raised a hand. “Professor, before you go, if you don’t mind, there is one other thing that I want to mention; it could be important.”

“I am listening; tell it.”

“A few years ago Naomi took me inside the Pyramid of Khufu, through a secret door. It was at the beginning of our search for the Ark. Inside, is the Temple of Osiris. I know that you and some of your people are aware of the place, but have kept it a lifelong secret. Well, in the centre of that temple there is a raised plinth and on that, an altar . . . a stone structure with a flat top and a lot of inscriptions – in the old writing, you understand. But more importantly, in the middle of that altar there is a receptacle, a cup . . . a chalice if you like. I thought it was significant at the time, but, you know, things slip your mind. The receptacle in the back of that statue where I placed the crystal this evening, it was remarkably similar, although a little smaller. It jogged my memory.” Richard paused and looked thoughtful. “I’m thinking out loud here, but that chalice in the pyramid might also have been made for a similar purpose – a facility for tapping the energy of a Kalahari crystal. We know that the Ark containing the shattered crystal from Eridu passed through Giza on its way to Meroe, and that it remained there for many centuries. The Temple of Osiris was said to have great powers. You recall that Simpson-Carter viewed the pyramids as more a network of centres for interplanetary communication? He even spoke of the pyramids on Mars, that there could be a link?” Richard shrugged. “Anyway, something to bear in mind, perhaps.” Richard fell back in his chair and smiled. “Good night, Professor.”

CHAPTER 18

Rockets and Relatives

The Plane of Elysium – Mars
Early the next day

“Commander Race, sir, can you come up, please? The object is painting clearly now on the area radar; I’m getting an accurate readout of its dimensions.”

Tom Race, the Commanding Officer of Osiris Base and the most senior officer on Mars, was busy checking the integrity and functionality of his one-piece surface suit in the rear compartment. “On my way, Peter,” he responded, trying to keep his balance. He replaced the bulbous white helmet in the locker, closed its grey metal door and then staggered forwards, using the overhead rails as support.

The rough terrain caused the PTSV to roll and judder as Peter Carr used his hand-held microphone to call Lesley Oakley in the cockpit. She manoeuvred the long vehicle with some skill around the final obstacles in a boulder field and then set a course to avoid the windward side of an approaching extended rocky outcrop that rose abruptly from the plain to tower some 500 feet above them. From experience, Lesley knew the extent of the soft, deep sand that accumulates on the windward side of such outcrops, and the danger it presents to the PTSV. Even the massive bulbous tyres, independent suspension system and high gearing would not prevent the machine sinking quickly if she dared cut the corner. She avoided the area by a good margin despite losing ground to the lightweight two-seat buggy that by now was well ahead of them.

“Lesley,” said Paul quietly, “back off on the speed will you. Make it forty K’s . . . forty-five max. And call Dan; make sure those two guys keep their eyes peeled.”

“Speed forty-five maximum, copied. Shall I engage the pulse cannon?”

“Yes, do that. Automatic target enhancement mode, self-align, but manual fire.”

“It’s done. Manual fire control selected . . . okay . . . yes, it has acquired the target and the buggy’s transponder is indicating ‘on-side’ about ten Ks ahead of us – so no problem with mistaken identity. Turning to course zero, seven, five degrees. Direct track towards the object. Twenty minutes to run.”

“Got it,” responded Paul, as Commander Race arrived at his console. Paul focused his attention on the radar display as the Commander leaned over his shoulder. “There it is, sir, directly ahead,” he explained, pointing at a square-shaped blip on the circular screen. The rotating sensor swept over the blip again as the two men studied it and the indication glowed brightly for a few seconds. “Range fourteen Ks, and it’s been acquired by the weapon system too, just in case. The last Geosat pass locked the coordinates; there’s nothing else in the area.”

“Good . . . details?”

“Looks to be cylinder-like – six metres wide I’d say, and about the same high, standing approximately three metres clear of the ground, probably on an undercarriage arrangement of some kind. We are seeing a few antennae on the top and also what looks like a microwave dish. No sign of life, although the infrared scanner is picking up a localised hotspot – just there. See it? Seems to be an equipment area, maybe a cooling outlet or similar.”

Tom Race nodded. “Okay, thanks, Paul. We go in slowly and quietly, keep out of sight behind that hillock for as long as possible, and come back to twenty-five kilometres per hour.”

Paul relayed the information to Lesley Oakley. “It’s done, sir – speed twenty-five Ks.”

“Open a channel to Dan Winton, will you?”

“Survey One this is Support One, come in please.” Paul pressed a button on his panel to feed the response through the cabin’s speaker.

There was a crackling for a moment and a distant whining sound before a reply was heard. “Three by five, Support One. Little bit hazy out here and some atmospheric electrostatic remnants from the storm, so a little radio distortion I guess,” came the voice of Space Engineer Dan Winton.

“Copied, Dan. Commander Race is with me; he’s going to talk to you. Standby.” Paul turned to the Commander. “Go ahead, sir.”

“Dan, radar’s showing you at less than three kilometres. Can you see it?” Tom asked.

“Yes, we see it, Commander. Closing fast. It’s in a flat area, some undulations to the south. A black object, elevated.”

“Okay, be careful.” Commander Race looked around at Paul. “Are they armed?”

“A static baton each, and there is a flare gun as part of the buggy’s inventory . . . that’s it, I’m afraid. They were not supposed to be going it alone. Shall I call them off until we get closer?”

“Definitely a landing vehicle,” came the voice of Dan Winton. The radio crackled again. “Looks like a circular section, perhaps a mid-portion of a small rocket. Four support legs. Put down in a good landing area . . . Nine hundred metres now, and seeing some communication antennae and there is a break halfway up. Eight hundred metres . . . interesting, the lower half is the landing stage. Single propulsion nozzle. Looks to be a basic rocket motor. Wait, there seems to be a second stage, the upper part. Six hundred metres to go . . . yes, there is an ascent stage, alright . . . sir, the capsule has a two-way capability!”

“Anything else, Dan?”

“Lee’s trying to get the binoculars working so he can patch through the image directly to your display – bit of sand in the contacts, won’t be long. What’s the deal, Lee?”

“Here comes the image. I’m using I-Band, but I’m not sure it will be that clear,” said a man with an Irish accent.

At that moment a grainy picture appeared on an ancillary monitor screen on Paul’s console. A blurred image of the capsule could be seen, but it was distorted by flickering lines that flashed up and down the screen. It was a real-time close-up; digital numbers on the left-hand side of the screen indicated 150 metres and decreasing. And the image appeared unstable, as the buggy negotiated the reddish-brown sand-covered landscape.

“Topography is petering out; I’m going to break cover from behind this high ground,” announced Lesley, her voice emanating from the intercom speaker.

“Tell her to slow to ten Ks and proceed with care,” said the Commander from the rear console.

Paul passed on the message and then spoke to the buggy crew. “Looks like you’re very close now guys; we’re ten minutes behind you. Anything else?”

“The capsule definitely has some stealth features,” replied Dan Winton. “A dull black finish, granular in nature, nothing reflective anywhere . . . it’s a radar-absorbing material, spray applied. I’ve seen it before, I think, in fighter technology. Also, there are angular external accessories to scatter radar returns and four dissipaters around the rocket nozzle to reduce its heat signature – probably why it wasn’t picked up during the descent. Solar panels are of an integrated circular type, again to reduce a sensor return. Concentric rows – looks like an excessive requirement for electrical power. There would be a weight penalty to all this – it appears that stealth and electrical-generating potential were priorities in the design of this craft. No markings, however. Wait a minute! Yes, we see something, up there on the upper structure . . . Lee’s climbing out. Call it Lee . . .”

“Looks like Chinese writing, or Japanese, that sort of thing. And there’s a red ‘T’, but nothing else, to be sure. No sign of life support either, no oxygen canisters, recyclers or waste disposal. But look . . .”

Against the red, eerie and incandescent glow of the sun’s orb as it completed its ascent above the distant horizon, astronaut Lee Tanner pointed to a position on the upper stage of the landing vehicle. He was silhouetted against the brilliant light as a shooting star produced a brief but fiery flash across the heavens above him. Instantaneously, other pieces of falling debris produced several curved white trails in the fading blackness of the early morning sky. Dan Winton followed his friend’s pointing finger.

“No sign of a life support system of any kind and yet there is a personnel hatch – quite a large one, too, about a metre square. Lee’s pointing to it now,” explained Dan over the radio. “Clearly this is a recognisable design and has come from home, but there is no provision for humans, not that I can see. Also, there are a lot of marks in the sand on this side. Not exactly footprints, but something walking on two feet . . . sounds impossible but I think we have been visited by robots!”

In the PTSV, which by now was less than five kilometres away, Paul, who was still sitting at his console, looked up at Tom Race. “Robots, Commander?” he said, with a startled expression. “What kind of robot could pilot a landing vehicle, make a successful touchdown in an adverse environment, go off and cause trouble, and then expect to blast off again – presumably to rendezvous with a passing ship? Because there sure as hell isn’t anything orbiting this planet – our sensors would have picked it up. What would they want, anyway?”

“I’ve come face-to-face with a system that could almost do that, Paul . . . back in 2050.” Tom looked concerned. “The Humatron HU40, built by Tongsei. The red T painted on the hull confirms it. The entire model range was recalled and destroyed later that year and further production was universally banned on Earth. They had an inherent programming disorder. Perhaps with four years of secret development they have produced something else, an improved model, one capable of total autonomy?”

Paul scratched the stubble on his chin. “The attack we sustained near the sensor mast five days ago and Martine’s death . . . it all makes sense. But what about the laws that are applicable to robots? Shouldn’t their programming contain dynamic overlays to prevent them from harming humans? Not in any way should they attack a person or be openly aggressive!”

“Unscrupulous men will be behind this – the big corporations. They are blind to the plight of others; for them it’s all about control.” The Commander sighed heavily. “Why didn’t we think of this earlier?” he continued, shaking his head. “Listen, first we need to find out how many of these things there are, and then what they are doing here.” He leaned across the console and pressed the radio transmit button again. “Dan! Commander Race here! Stay in the buggy and keep your eyes open! Lee, you take a look inside the module and count how many seats or manoeuvre stations. If we are dealing with Humatron HU40’s or even worse, an upgraded model, then we are in serious trouble. Dan, Lee, any sign of a robot and you high tail it – understand? I want an immediate Mayday call: no heroics and no reasoning. You get the hell out of there. We’ll be with you in two minutes!”

Moon Base Andromeda – simultaneous

“Would the Security Officer and the Chief Operations Officer please report to the Operation’s Room immediately. Security Officer and Chief Operations Officer to the Ops room please,” came a female voice over Andromeda One’s entire PA network.

Dimitri Nurevski, a former Major in the Russian Space Programme, was the first to arrive in the large operations room in the upper central district; an area affectionately called Cyber City. It was a brightly lit room, filled with computer consoles. There were various models: some old, some state-of-the-art. The central system had a large transparent display screen, viewable from both sides. The image on the screen showed the Earth and the Moon in space and a system of flight corridors between them. There were white dots in the corridors that indicated space vessels in transit.

The consoles were being manned by men and women, mainly in their twenties and thirties, and of all nationalities. There was a small gathering in an alcove to the right and somebody in that group called: “Dimitri! Dimitri, over here please . . . quickly.” The voice emanated from the Lunar Security Control Centre, a group of consoles detached from the main area. Dimitri Nurevski turned and promptly walked over to the group as Eddie Lieven, the Chief Operations Officer strode through the main doors on the other side of the room. Dimitri raised a hand, attracted his attention and indicated where he was going.

The gathering parted as Dimitri arrived and allowed him access to the primary console. “What is it? What’s the problem?” he asked, with a heavy East European intonation.

The group centred on a mature-looking woman, perhaps in her early thirties. She had Asian features with black hair that was tied back in a tight bun and wore a pale blue trouser suit of synthetic cotton. A badge over her right breast pocket, consisting of three narrow platinum-coloured bands overlaying the letters ‘LSD’,
signified her status as a senior operative in the Lunar Security Directorate.

“It’s the dark side sensors, and something sent to me by Herbie Smith in the Freight Control Centre. He drew my attention to it and it is very irregular.” She pointed at her screen.

At that moment Eddie Lieven arrived. He was short and stocky and, hailing from Brussels, spoke English with a French lisp. His face was flushed. “I was in a meeting with the Council of Senators . . . What the hell is it?” He scowled.

The Asian woman looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but this definitely warrants a Code One.”

“Well!”

“It’s the dark side sensor array. The extended essential maintenance period was completed at 04:00 hours. The engineers completed a normal power up at 04:06 hours, but thirty-three seconds later the entire system crashed . . . total loss. I’ve had the Duty Engineering Officer on the line; he can’t understand it, Sir. He says it was caused by an electrical overload that amounted to more than the actual system demands when operating at maximum capacity. He says a current spike of such magnitude could not have happened accidentally. He says it’s impossible. And he says that there’s substantial damage to the receiver network . . . the system could be down for a month. It’s burnt out, sir!”

“Where is the DEO now?”

“In the transport department, I think, trying to get the service vehicles loaded and the spare parts chain in place.”

“I need to speak to him,” barked Lieven. “Put out a call on the PA.”

The woman looked across at a colleague who sat at another console, nodded her approval, and then looked up at the two men again. “There’s something else, sir. You had better take a look at this.” With that she made a selection on her keyboard and pointed to her monitor. The image on the screen made several people in the group gasp. Both the Security Officer and the Chief Operations Officer bent forwards and peered at the screen. Dimitri Nurevski’s mouth dropped open.