Saucer: Savage Planet

by Stephen Coonts

  “All I know,” DeVries said, “is he ain’t from Brooklyn.”

  The captain didn’t respond to that inanity. He said aloud, musing, “He’s kinda freaky, but nothin’ you can put your finger on. Still, bein’ around him gives me goosebumps.”

  “They got money,” DeVries said simply. In his mind, money excused all peculiarities, an ingrained attitude he had acquired long ago because he didn’t have any.

  “World Pharmaceuticals is gonna have to push a lotta pills to earn back eight million smackers for deep-sea salvage.”

  “I say it’s a good thing,” the mate said lightly. “Some of this saucer money is finally trickling all the way down to us.”

  “Amen,” the captain said, and both men laughed.

  Then Johnson’s mood changed. “Solo is gonna try to fix that thing up and they’re gonna fly it,” Johnson said darkly. “That’s gotta be it.”

  “You gonna call somebody?”

  “After Douglas gets his saucer safely ashore, I don’t think he gives a rat’s patootie who we tell.”

  “It’ll never fly again,” DeVries said with finality. “Bet it’s nothing but wreckage inside. Maybe if somebody like Boeing worked on it for a year or two they could get it in shape to fly again, but one guy ain’t gonna do it with hand tools.”

  The captain lit a cigarette one-handed. “Tell you what,” he said after his first full puff. “I don’t care a whit if it flies or not, or what Douglas hopes to do with it. Guy’s got a screw loose.”

  The mate couldn’t take his eyes off the saucer. “Thing’s heavy as hell. Like to never got it up. We almost lost it a dozen times.”

  “Notice how the Queen’s ridin? Lot of weight up high. Hope we make harbor before the sea kicks up.”

  DeVries grunted. After a moment he said with a touch of wonder in his voice, “A real, honest-to-God flying saucer … Never believed in ’em, y’know?”

  “Yeah,” the captain agreed. “Thought it was all bull puckey. Even standing here looking at one of the darn things, I have my doubts.”

  * * *

  The only light inside the saucer came through the canopy, a dim glow from the salvage vessel’s masthead lights. It took several seconds for Solo’s eyes to adjust.

  As the first mate predicted, the corpse of Jean-Paul Lalouette was there. The force of the impact had caused the seat belt and shoulder harness of the pilot’s seat to tear though his body, the major pieces of which were lying on the floor under the instrument panel. There was blood everywhere, but it had congealed and now had the consistency of dry paint.

  After a glance, Solo ignored the corpse.

  Harrison Douglas thought he ought to do something, so he clasped his hands in front of his ample middle and stood for a moment with head bowed and eyes closed. He stood like that for at least ten seconds. Then he opened his eyes and looked around again like a lucky Kmart shopper. The compartment was round, with a pilot’s seat on a pedestal and other seats arranged at floor level along the rear wall. The canopy gave the pilot a view forward and a bit of a look to both sides.

  The instrument panel, if that was what it was, consisted of white panels. There were a few knobs. Five of them. There was a control stick for the pilot—at least it looked like a stick—and a lever of some sort on the left side of the pilot’s seat. Two pedals where the pilot’s feet could reach them. Rudder pedals, maybe.

  How it all worked Douglas couldn’t imagine. Nor did he care. “Where are the computers?” he asked Solo.

  Adam Solo nodded toward the instrument panel.

  “Can you get at ’em?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Amazing,” Douglas said under his breath, then said it again, louder. Trying not to step in the dry bloodstains, he reached out to touch things.

  Solo removed a flashlight from his pocket and snapped it on. He began moving the beam around the interior of the ship, inspecting for damage. There was some. The glass in one of the multifunction displays in front of the pilot was broken.

  “Dr. Douglas, I know you’ve had a long day and have much to think about. My examination of the ship will go much faster if you leave me to work in solitude.”

  Douglas beamed at Solo. “I didn’t think it could be done,” he admitted. “When you told me this ship could be salvaged and you could wring out its secrets, I thought you were lying. I want you to know I was wrong. I admit it, here and now.”

  Solo smiled.

  “So this is the saucer they found in Roswell, New Mexico, back in 1947,” Douglas said, shaking his head. “And the air force kept it hidden for all these years in Area Fifty-one.” He looked at Solo. “Is it what you expected?”

  Solo looked around thoughtfully. “Pretty much. I studied everything I could from one of the other saucer’s computers. Mr. Cantrell was very generous with access.”

  This was a lie, but Harrison Douglas swallowed it right down. Egg Cantrell had allowed academics from all over the world access to the contents of the computer removed from the saucer his nephew Rip found in the Sahara. That saucer was a smaller version of this one, everyone said. They were indeed alike in many ways, Solo knew, but there were significant differences. This one was more technologically advanced. He didn’t bother to explain these messy facts to his patron, however.

  “I leave you to it,” Douglas said. “If you will just open that hatch to let me out.” He took a last glance at the remains of the French pilot. “He doesn’t stink as much as I thought he would,” he muttered.

  Solo opened the hatch and Douglas carefully climbed through; then Solo closed it again. He stood inside running the beam of his flashlight back and forth, looking carefully at everything. It had been many years since he was inside a saucer; the memories came flooding back. Good memories and bad. He tried to clear his head, to concentrate on his inspection, to look critically at what he saw.

  After a moment, Solo opened the access door to the engineering compartment and disappeared inside. He was inside for an hour before he came out. With his flashlight he again inspected every square inch of the cockpit’s interior, opened access doors and looked inside, and when he had examined everything he could access, he took stock.

  Charley Pine had apparently used the antiproton weapon in the other saucer on this one, attempting to shoot it down. The one-armed corpse on the floor had bled profusely from a cavernous wound in his leg. Solo found the hole in the water tank and repaired it with duct tape.

  Fortunately the water tank could function at a very low pressure. If he ensured the pressure stayed low, maybe he would be okay. The reactor provided power to several generators, and they seemed intact. The electrical power was used to separate the water into hydrogen and oxygen—these tanks were highly pressurized and intact—and mixed the gases in the rocket propulsion system. The generators also provided power for the antigravity system. A display on the panel was wrecked, but there were three more, which should be enough. Apparently none of the antiprotons had met a proton in the reactor. If it had, there should be a detectable radiation leak.

  Of course, if he powered up the reactor and there was actually was internal damage from antiprotons or the crash into the ocean, Adam Solo and everyone else on this salvage ship would soon be dead.

  Solo rubbed his chin as he glanced around one more time.

  Well, there was only one way to find out.

  Solo retrieved the headband that was still wrapped around the dead Frenchman’s head. He wiped it off without emotion and put it on his own head.

  “Hello, Eternal Wanderer. Let us examine the health of your systems.” Before him, the instrument panel exploded into life.

  * * *

  The first mate, DeVries, strolled the bridge with the helm on autopilot. The rest of the small crew of Atlantic Queen, including the captain, were in their bunks asleep. The rain had stopped, and a sliver of moon was peeping through the clouds overhead. The mate had always enjoyed the ethereal beauty of the night and the way the ship rode the restless, living se
a. He was soaking in the sensations, occasionally strolling across the bridge from one wing to the other and periodically checking the radar display and compass, when he noticed the glow from the saucer’s cockpit.

  The spaceship took up so much of the deck that the cockpit canopy was almost even with the bridge windows. As the mate stared into the cockpit, he saw the figure of Adam Solo. He reached for the bridge binoculars. Turned the focus wheel.

  Solo’s face appeared, lit by a subdued light source in front of him. The mate assumed that the light came from the instruments—computer presentations—and he was correct. DeVries could see the headband, which looked exactly like the kind the Indians wore in old cowboy movies. Solo’s face was expressionless … no, that wasn’t true, the mate decided. He was concentrating intensely.

  Obviously the saucer was more or less intact or it wouldn’t have electrical power. Whoever designed that thing sure knew what he was about. He or she. Or it. Whoever that was, wherever that was …

  Finally the mate’s arms tired and he lowered the binoculars.

  He snapped the binoculars into their bracket and went back to pacing the bridge. Occasionally he glanced at the saucer’s glowing cockpit. The moon, the clouds racing overhead, the ship pitching and rolling monotonously—it seemed as if he were trapped in this moment in time and this was all there had ever been or ever would be. It was a curious feeling … almost mystical.

  Surprised at his own thoughts, DeVries shook his head and tried to concentrate on his duties.

  * * *

  Adam Solo used the onboard computers to examine the state of every system in the saucer. The long-range communications equipment refused to come online or self-test. He opened the access plate under the instrument panel and stuck his head in. He found the modules he wanted … and found himself staring at one bulged box.

  An antiproton exploded in there.

  He backed out and closed the panel, then slowly climbed back into the pilot’s seat, fighting back his disappointment. Well, there was nothing for it but to play the cards he had.

  Thirty minutes later, satisfied that the comm gear and one instrument display were the only casualties, he opened the hatch and dropped to the deck. He closed the hatch behind him, just in case, and went below to his cabin. No one was in the passageways. Nor did he expect to find any of the crew there. He glanced into one of the crew’s berthing spaces. The glow of the tiny red lights revealed that every bunk was full, and every man seemed to be snoring.

  In his cabin Solo quickly packed his bag. He stripped the sheets and blankets from his bunk and, carrying the lot, went back up on deck. Careful to stay out of sight of the bridge, he stowed his gear in the saucer. Spreading the blankets on the cockpit floor, he carefully laid the remains of the French fighter pilot on the sheet and wrapped them tight. Using a roll of duct tape, he bound the bundle as tightly as he could and eased it through the open hatch.

  Adam Solo unfastened one of the chains that bound the saucer to the deck and wrapped it around the bundle. As he dragged it to the rail, he said, “You probably weren’t the first man to die in that ship, but I hope you’re the last.” With that he pushed the bundle over the side. The mortal remains of Jean-Paul Lalouette disappeared with a tiny splash.

  A hose lay coiled near a water faucet, one the crew routinely used to wash mud from cables and chains coming aboard. Solo looked at it, then shook his head. The water intake was on top of the saucer; climbing up there would expose him to the man on the bridge, and would be dangerous besides. He had come so far, had waited so long—now would be a bad time to fall overboard, which would doom him to inevitable drowning.

  He removed the tie-down chains and restraining straps one by one, lowering them gently to the deck so the sound wouldn’t reverberate through the steel ship.

  Finally, when he had the last one off, he stood beside the saucer, with it between him and the bridge, and studied the position of the crane and hook, the mast and guy wires. Satisfied, Adam Solo stooped and went under the saucer and up through the hatch.

  * * *

  The first mate was checking the GPS position and the recommended course to Sandy Hook when he felt the subtle change in the ship’s motion. An old hand at sea, he noticed it immediately and looked around.

  The saucer was there, immediately in front of the bridge—but it was higher, the lighted canopy several feet above where it had previously been. He could see Solo’s head, now seated in the pilot’s chair. The saucer was moving, or seemed to be, rocking back and forth. Actually it was stationary—the ship was moving in the sea way.

  DeVries’ first impression was that the ship’s motion had changed because the saucer’s weight was gone, but he was wrong. The antigravity rings in the saucer had pushed it away from the ship, which still supported the entire mass of the machine. The center of gravity was higher, so consequently the ship rolled with more authority.

  At that moment Harrison Douglas came up the ladder, moving carefully with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  He saw DeVries staring out the bridge windows, transfixed.

  Douglas turned to follow DeVries’ gaze and found himself looking at Adam Solo’s head inside the saucer. Solo was too engrossed in what he was doing to even glance at the bridge. For only a few seconds was the saucer suspended over the deck. As the salvage ship came back to an even keel the saucer moved toward the starboard side, pushing the ship dangerously in that direction. Then the saucer went over the rail and the ship, free of the saucer’s weight, rolled port with authority.

  “No!” Douglas roared. “Come back here, Solo! It’s mine. Mine, I tell you, mine!” He dropped his coffee cup and strode to the door that led to the wing of the bridge. He flung it open and stepped out. The mate was right behind him. Both men grabbed the rail with both hands as the wind and sea spray tore at them.

  The lighted canopy was no longer visible. For a few seconds Douglas and DeVries could see a glint of moonlight reflecting off the dark upper surface of the spaceship, then they lost it. The saucer disappeared into the night.

  “If that doesn’t take the cake! The bastard stole it!” exclaimed Harrison Douglas, and he shook his fist in the direction in which the saucer had disappeared. “I’ll get you, Solo, and I’ll get that ship back. So help me God!”

  2

  Rip Cantrell, Charley Pine and Rip’s Uncle Egg sat on wooden crates staring dejectedly at the objects arranged on the floor of the warehouse. The stuff looked like junk that had been removed from an abandoned chicken coop. Just what the twisted metal and shattered composite material, if that was what it was, might have been before they were destroyed upon entry to the earth’s atmosphere and eons of submergence in the sea, no one could say.

  Egg turned to the other people there, a man and woman from the Australian Archaeological Commission, and an American archaeologist who was there at Egg’s invitation, Deborah Deehring. “It’s hopeless,” he said. “There’s no way to identify the pieces in this condition.”

  He nodded toward a schematic that was pinned to a wall. “This is what the computer from the Sahara saucer says the starships looked like then. I don’t know if the design changed or not.” He swept his hand toward the stuff on the warehouse floor. “I can’t identify one piece.”

  Rip was an athletic young man of twenty-three years. His life had taken a hard right turn when, as part of a seismic survey crew, he discovered a flying saucer embedded in a sandstone ledge in the Sahara and dug it out.

  Charlotte “Charley” Pine, thirty-one years old, had been a civilian member of an air force UFO team that investigated the Sahara saucer, and she was the one who flew it away when armed thugs tried to confiscate it. A graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy, she had been a fighter pilot, then a test pilot, before resigning from the service. Rip used to refer to her despairingly as “an older woman.” He didn’t do that these days.

  Egg Cantrell, Rip’s uncle, was an engineer and inventor. He was fiftyish and spry, with an ovoid shape, hence his ni
ckname, which he didn’t mind. A consummate realist, Egg accepted the world as he found it and tried mightily to understand.

  Professor Deborah Deehring was athletic and blond and had huge, intense blue eyes. When she focused those eyes on Egg and smiled, he felt a very curious sensation. He liked the sensation, and Deborah, a lot.

  For the past two weeks, Charley, Rip, Uncle Egg and Deborah had stirred through this pile of junk the Australians had found embedded in the Great Barrier Reef. It was, the Australians believed, an ancient starship, perhaps the very one that brought Rip’s saucer to this galaxy 140,000 years ago. They reached this conclusion based on an analysis of the metal removed from the reef, and from the geology of the reef construction, which proved the metal had been there for a long, long time.

  However, Egg wasn’t sure that the Australian scientists were right. If this stuff was originally part of a starship, the metal must have been supercooled in space, heated to astronomical temperatures on its trip into the earth’s atmosphere and subjected to a salt bath for over a hundred millennia. Who knows what its original molecular composition might have been? Nor could anyone now recognize the metal. All everyone could agree upon was that it was old and weird. They also agreed that if they were indeed looking at the carcass of a starship, it certainly couldn’t be the one that delivered the Roswell saucer, which crashed in New Mexico in 1947 and had ended up in the Atlantic Ocean.

  “We just don’t know how often earth has been visited by extraterrestrials,” Egg said dejectedly. “For all we know, that metal is a million years old. We have no idea how fast saltwater would corrode it.”

  The Aussie in charge was a woman, Dr. Helen Colt. She was a no-nonsense salt-and-pepper woman who was rarely seen without her clipboard. The assistant, ten years younger than Colt, was a man named Billy Reese. He was smallish in stature, also a PhD, a thoughtful type given to stroking his jaw and saying little.

  Just now he eyed the computer on Egg’s lap, then scrutinized Rip’s and Charley’s faces thoughtfully.