Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (5 page)

“Commander, Matheson here. We are in the module and ready to go. Thing is, there’s a fuel discrepancy. The on-board system says that we can’t get back to a sixty-two per cent elliopheric. I’ve run the programme three times and it’s more accurate than
Hera
’s – there’s no doubt. It’s the temperature gradient – all the way to the surface – it’s just too damn high. There’s no way around it; you’ll have to descend for our return or we are on a one-way mission!”

“What orbit is the on-board system giving, Mike? The maximum that you can achieve, including a manoeuvre allowance?” responded Duval. He had selected ‘open bridge’ on the audio control.

“You’re not going to like it . . . forty-eight per cent, sir.”

“Shit!” Duval looked across at Alex.

Alex shook his head. “That’s a no go!” he said. He turned back to his console and ran some figures.

“I’m waiting Alex!”

“Okay, okay, it’s coming.” There was an air of apprehension on the bridge. “I’ve got it.” Alex swivelled in his high-backed seat. “I can do seventeen minutes at forty-eight per cent!” he exclaimed. “That includes an allowance for all the fuel we are saving here, plus
all
of our reserves. Things are going to get mighty hot out there though, Commander. We are going to take one hell of a radiation hit. Seventeen minutes . . . that’s it; otherwise it’s a one-way mission for all of us.” There was no compromise in his tone.

Duval rubbed the brow of his nose. This was a very difficult decision he had to make. He considered the implications for several seconds.

“It’s your call, Commander. We are ready to launch. Just say the word.” Matheson’s voice cut through the atmosphere on the bridge like a hot knife through butter.

“How much time do you need on the surface, Mike?” Duval barked. “Now that you have the surface contours mapped.”

“Planned is six hours, but I’m aiming to do it in four – provided I can put the Lander down close to the deposit. Flight time is around thirty minutes, twenty-one for the return leg, and we need an extra allowance for docking, just in case there’s a problem coordinating concentricity. I intend to land, collect a bucketful of those damn crystals and hightail it – none of the geology experiments. I think we can do it . . .”

“Okay . . . we go! Dispatch! Start the countdown!”

“Thirty per cent elliopheric,
Hera
, all systems green . . .”

The bridge remained silent.

“Twenty per cent elliopheric. Approaching the transition. Final coordinates locked in. Approach path gradient computed. Systems green . . . We are go,
Hera
.” Drake’s voice sounded confident.

Duval leaned over his display screen and then he looked sideways at Alex. “Looks good, Commander,” Alex said, reassuringly. Duval nodded, a smile jabbing his lips.

“Transition complete, passing eighty thousand feet, seventy thousand, sixty thousand . . . Skin temperature stable – the
Osprey
is looking good. We are go,
Hera
!”

Duval began tapping his finger on the console. Carol Boardman held her breadth. Alex swivelled around in his seat as he scanned his computer monitors.

“Ten thousand feet, arresting rate of descent, nine thousand, eight, seven . . . we have a visual contact . . . we have a visual with the landing site,
Hera
. Four thousand feet, passing committal altitude – green, green for go,
Hera
.”

“Come on, come on,” whispered Duval. He knew well enough that this was the critical phase.

“Eight hundred feet. Combined retro thrust sixty-five per cent and increasing. Approach looks good,
Hera
.”

“Commander, I’ve got a contact on radar, astern at one thousand miles . . . It’s coming up fast?”

Duval looked up. “That’s impossible.”

“Well it’s—”

“Not now, Rose! You must be mistaken.”

“I’ve double checked, Commander. There’s no mistake, there’s something out there!”

“
Not now
, Rose!” Duval looked back at his screen, shaking his head.

“Four hundred feet . . . three hundred . . . steady . . . what the . . . !” Matheson’s voice sounded tense over the speaker. “Stop the descent, Aldrin! Stop it now!”

“What is it Mike?” asked Duval.

“Er, we have a problem,
Hera
,” Matheson replied. “Touchdown sensors are confusing the hell out of the landing computer. Doppler radar malfunction . . . I say again, Doppler malfunction. Try a reset for me,
Hera
– no delay, please.”

“There’s no malfunction on
my
panel,” grunted Viktor.

“Mike, this is Jacques. There’s no malfunction showing up here!”

“Maintaining altitude, two hundred feet, holding altitude . . . we sure as hell have one here, Commander. Auto-land system’s gone goofy on us . . .”

“Watch your fuel, Mike!” chipped in Alex. “One minute and twenty seconds remaining.”

“They are past committal height . . . there
IS
no abort!” Everybody knew it, but still Viktor Aprashin’s word spread trepidation.

Seconds passed; critical seconds. Mike Matheson’s calm voice belied the staccato words. “What the . . . ? It’s the landing site. The freaking landing site is still moving . . . It’s the goddamn lava flow – computers can’t lock on to the touchdown coordinates.”

“Watch your fuel, Mike . . . put it down!”

“Going manual, going manual . . . I have manual control,
Hera
.”

“Put it down, Mike,” interrupted Alex, fretfully, “there’s no time for dancing . . . fuel for forty-five seconds!”

There was a collective gasp on the bridge.

“Over there . . . Mike, ten o’clock, fifty metres, see it . . . a clear area!” Aldrin’s voice was compelling.

“Moving left, going down . . . one hundred feet!”

“Another two degrees to port . . . on course. You’re on course Mike!” instructed Aldrin.

“Thirty seconds of fuel remaining . . . no delay . . . no delay. Mike! Put it down!” Alex could barely contain his emotion.

“Clear on this side! Down! Down!” blurted Aldrin. “Eighty feet, radio altimeter reads seventy feet . . . sixty . . . fifty . . . forty . . .”

“Fifteen seconds of fuel remaining . . . On the ground! Put it on the ground, Mike!
Do it
now
!” Alex gripped his head in his hands and leaned back hard in his seat.

Dust and debris rose from the ground. It swirled and churned as a dense, yellow-coloured cloud that completely obliterated the astronaut’s view through his narrow window.
That’s enough
, Mike Matheson thought, as he closed the two thrust levers in his right hand simultaneously. As a result the Lander dropped like a brick. Moments later, there was a loud crash and then a precarious swaying movement and then there was stillness. Inside the module, subdued computer noises and the hum of avionics robbed the silence of its comforting effect and green lights skipped along the astronaut’s instrument panels. Mike Matheson looked across at his colleague; he nodded and then shrugged almost imperceptibly. He gave a brief half-smile to his friend as a thank you and then gestured as if to say:
lucky
! Thereafter the two men sat rigid for several seconds.

On the bridge of the
Hera
nobody moved or dared to speak. Seconds seemed like minutes.

“Talk to me guys . . . Situation report please?” Alex’s cool demeanour fooled nobody. Sideways, he shared an anxious glance with Duval.

Despite his totally professional disposition, there was a nervous hesitation in Mike Matheson’s delivery as he said: “The Osprey has landed. We are safely down,
Hera
 . . . All systems are green.”

Back on the
Hera,
Joe Ansbacher, who was closely monitoring data on his life support display, watched with great relief as Matheson’s heart rate indication dropped from a peak of 190, to a more normal 109. Drake’s was a little higher but of no immediate concern. Meanwhile, Commander Duval’s shoulders visibly dropped and Carol Boardman stopped gripping the seat of her chair.

“We’re going to set to,” continued Matheson, a minute or two later and speaking over the open frequency. He seemed more relaxed. “Clock starts now, four hours maximum. For the record, we seem to be in a relatively cool area; outside probes are indicating an average of two hundred and thirty degrees Celsius. But we flew through a much hotter zone. Maybe that’s why the lava state was unpredictable, not fully solidified. We are setting suit-conditioning to ninety-one per cent, which gives us some additional flex. Precise location is . . . cross-coordinate two, two, five. We’re on the edge of the North West landing sector. Crystal site is five hundred metres south-east. I’ll transmit a sitrep in twenty minutes. Put the coffee on up there . . . Matheson out!”

Duval breathed a huge sigh of relief. That was the cue for everyone else on the bridge to follow suit. Alex forced a smile.

Rose broke the ensuing silence. “Commander, I need you to look at this.
Now
please. There’s no mistake. I’ve switched to the standby radar scanner and I’m still getting the same contact reading. We have a blip – directly astern at three thousand metres. Whatever it is – and it’s relatively small – it is coming this way at ten metres per second and reducing.”

Duval heard the resolve in her voice. As impossible as it seemed, Rose was reporting an intruder. A strange chill descended over the bridge – intruders usually meant trouble. Duval quickly stepped over to Rose’s circular display and Alex followed him. Rose pointed to the tiny blip on the screen. Duval waited for the track of the scanner to sweep the object again. He stared almost unbelieving as the next pass enhanced the object’s elongated saucer-like shape. With another sweep the blip moved inexorably toward them. Duval’s eyes narrowed. He turned and nodded at Alex. “Confirmed at one thousand metres,” he said, bluntly. “Whatever it is, we should be able to see it any moment now.” He looked back at the screen and then up at Rose. “We are not expecting any replenishment vessels from Earth are we . . . anybody? Am I missing something here?”

None of the bridge crew responded. Some shook their heads. Alex shrugged – he was totally at a loss.

Duval paused thoughtfully. His mouth twitched. “Okay. Press the button. Go to manoeuvre alert status and security state three, just in case the Federation has planned a docking that we are not party to as yet. Close all pressure bulkheads,” he ordered, and then he glanced over to his engineering officer. “I suppose it’s vaguely possible; we’ve been out of radio contact with everybody for several days now.”

“I can see it, Commander,” interrupted Joe, pointing into the blackness with his finger. “It’s just fired a short retro burst. Looks to be manoeuvring to the left now, establishing a parallel course – coming up the right-hand side of the gantries. Now, there, another . . . See it?” Joe pointed again.

Duval and Rose stepped over to the rear viewing area. Carol Boardman joined them. “Yes, I see it,” Duval replied. He watched warily as the small craft came slowly towards them. A few minutes later and with all on the bridge staring in amazement, it drew up alongside them. The vessel was painted black, making it difficult to see against the backdrop of space. It was surprisingly close too – not more than 200 metres away. The front of the craft was then illuminated momentarily as two short retro bursts reduced its velocity to a walking pace and then the effect of a third stopped the vessel in its tracks. There was an eerie silence. The vessel seemingly hovered there in the darkness: ominous, unexpected.

“Call it, Rose! Make it identify itself,” ordered Duval.

“I’ve been trying for the last ten minutes, sir, using the pre-recorded identification message – all our assigned space frequencies, and also on the space distress frequency. Nothing. No response at all.”

Alex stepped up beside Rose. “It’s like an interplanetary probe, but I don’t recognise the model and there are no apparent markings,” he reported. “It’s got an ion drive motor though. See the main thrust nozzle?”

Duval nodded in response. He looked concerned. “I think I can see something written on that rear stabiliser, near the discharge port. Viktor . . . put a light on it. Rose, take an image, process and put it on the main screen – magnified by five.”

“Yes, Commander.” Rose promptly returned to her console. “You’ve got it, Commander,” she said, a few moments later.

Duval focused on the picture. “There, look, you see it – markings, in red, lines of characters. Viktor, you recognise any of that?”

“It’s not Russian, if that’s what you mean, or any of the Slavic languages. We don’t use characters like that. I’d say that it’s Chinese, maybe Japanese . . . Korean even? I’m no expert.”

“Chinese!” Duval thought on that possibility for a moment. “Rose, get David Chung up here, quickly. He might be able to help with this. I know he has a Masters from the Beijing Aeronautics Institute.”

“Yes, will do . . . right away.”

Alex was perplexed. He spent several minutes leaning over the large horizontal monitor that was an integral part of the central display. He ran his finger over an adjacent control wheel adjusting the magnification factor and studied the subsequent image. “Commander,” he said after a while and with an air of apprehension, “I’ve got something. Take a look at this.”