Ishimaru

by Louis Rosas

  “Hai! I will do my best!” said Hiroshi.

  With a quick bow to his parents, Hiroshi Matsumura rushed out of the Intensive Care Unit waiting room with Capt. Yamazaki and Lt. Kodomo. A black JASDF staff car awaited them in the Emergency Room parking zone down below. They quickly drove off before zooming aboard an awaiting military chopper that would take him to Atsugi Naval Air Station to catch the Europa Station bound transport.

  Meanwhile back out in deep space, a small flotilla Deep Space Rescue Ships from the United States, European Space Agency, and Japan conducted a search in the vast region of space for any survivors of the DSMV Fortin. The first ship to reach the edge of the ‘Quad-Threes’ region of Morton Field Claim area closed in on the Fortin’s last known position. As done in times past, a call to all vessels in the area to assist in search & rescue efforts was made.

  Aboard the USDSRV (U.S. Deep Space Rescue Vessel) Red Adair so named after a famous 20th Century firefighter, its crew continued on sixteen hours into their Search and Rescue (SAR) mission. Communications officer John Kirby sat at his post holding an antique stopwatch in the red glare of his communication console. The thirty-two-year-old Veteran communications officer was about to be relieved from his shift when suddenly his instruments lit up detecting what sounded like a faint distress beacon just as twenty-four-year-old Specialist Karen Johnson arrived bearing a cup of coffee in hand in order to relieve him.

  “Say, Kirby, you should get some rack time. I can take it from here,” offered Johnson.

  “No, wait! I think I got something,” said Kirby.

  “Really, what is it?” asked Johnson.

  “It’s either a Pulsar or a faint distress beacon,” guessed Kirby. “Is that so? Let me give you a hand,” offered Johnson.

  John Kirby tried to adjust his instruments so to get a better fix on the faint distant signal as Spc. Johnson took her seat at the adjoining communications console.

  “Deploy the high gain receiver and point her thirty degrees right declination,” said Kirby.

  “Thirty degrees right declination Sir,” repeated Johnson as she looked up at the mission clock.

  “Don’t pay attention to that. You need to rely on instinct and a good set of ears,” said Kirby.

  “Well that’s why I learn from the master!” complimented Johnson.

  The Red Adair’s communications officers moved into high gear as they continued to make adjustments to get a fix on the faint signal’s location when suddenly a semi-audible distress beacon broke through the crackle of static. Kirby instantly reached for the intercom to contact the bridge to report the new contact.

  “DSC-COM. We’ve picked up a faint distress signal at 1,678,300 meters, thirty degrees right declination,” relayed Kirby.

  “Bridge acknowledged.”

  A second intercom called the Communications Station. Specialist Johnson picked up the hand receiver.

  “DSC-COM go for Johnson. Yes, Captain. We know that takes us further away from the Morton Claim Fields, but that’s where Kirby says the signal is coming from. Relaying telemetry data now,” answered Johnson. Kirby turned his head to Specialist Johnson and gestured for her to put the hand receiver down.

  Meanwhile high up on the bridge of the USDSRV Red Adair, Captain Augustus Cole sat in his chair as he looked over the incoming data and conferred with his executive officer.

  “What do you think there Boss?” asked Lt. Meyers.

  “I’d say let’s call this in and take a closer look,” suggested Capt. Cole.

  “Bridge to DSC-COM. Send long-range mission update to Europa Control,” communicated Lt. Meyers.

  “Ensign take her in thirty degrees right declination nice and slow,” ordered Capt. Cole.

  “Aye Captain Sir!” acknowledged the helmsman.

  “Let’s all remain vigilant and be on the lookout for debris. After all, we wouldn’t want to be needing rescue ourselves,” remarked Capt. Cole.

  “Yes, Captain. Taking her in nice and slow,” confirmed the Ensign.

  Thirty minutes later, communications officer Kirby remained at his post zeroing in on the faint incoming signal he had earlier acquired. Like an old-time Submariner from the past, Kirby sat there hunched over his console in the near dark of his station in the glare of his instruments. At his post, he diligently listened with his headphones to his ears in hopes of finding what his instruments could not hear. Between walls of static and the galactic noise, the faint distress beacon was difficult to pinpoint particularly with the cacophony of sounds resonating metal bearing bodies within the minefields and distant galactic noise from distant pulsars. Suddenly, a clear audible communication blasted his eardrums.

  “Whoa!” he exclaimed.

  “What is it?” asked Spc. Johnson.

  “I had this thing turned up all the way when another distress signal only louder burst through,” replied Kirby as he removed his headphones.

  Specialist Johnson called the bridge.

  “DSC-COM. We have a second signal coming through,” relayed Johnson.

  “A second signal?” asked Lt. Meyers.

  “Signal confirmed,” she replied.

  Kirby reached for a relay button on his console and patched the audible body of the header signal so everyone on the bridge could hear it.

  “Mayday-Mayday-Mayday. This is the DSMV Fortin calling out on all frequencies. Come in, please!. I repeat this is the DSMV Fortin. We are adrift in our scout ship with limited supplies and need urgent rescue. Our ship has been high jacked. We’d like to report an act of space piracy. I repeat this is the DSMV Fortin.”

  “Bridge to DSC-COM. This is the XO. Good job guys. We’ll take it from here,” relayed Lt. Meyers.

  “DSC-COM, thank you, Sir,” replied Kirby.

  “Looks like you can stop your old school ticking stopwatch and add another one for the books wouldn’t you say?” asked Johnson.

  An exhausted Kirby rubbed his tired eyes and thought about it for a moment.

  “I don’t know. It’s too soon for me. I don’t stop the clock until everyone has been accounted for and right now we still don’t know yet. We had two signals. The first signal came from further out,” remarked Kirby.

  “Well, why don’t you go get some rest. You’ve been on watch for close to 20 hours now,” advised Johnson.

  “You’re right. I’ll go down to the galley and get a bite to eat. Afterward; I’ll climb into my rack,” replied Kirby.

  “Hey! You’ve earned it boss,” said Johnson.

  Communications officer John Kirby got up from his post and pat Specialist Johnson on her left shoulder before saying:

  “Always remember our motto: When someone drops the ball – We get the call!” said both officers in unison.

  Before Kirby stepped away, he looked once more to is stopwatch and contemplated the resolution of the SAR.

  “Say: do me a favor; whatever the Captain says about this SAR, keep the mission clock running until I say otherwise,” requested Kirby.

  “Will do!” she replied.

  Meanwhile, up on the bridge, Lt. Meyers opened the channel to the Fortin’s scout ship.

  “DSMV Fortin. This is the USDSRV Red Adair hailing. Do you copy? Come in, please.”

  “This is the DSMV Fortin. We copy. Boy, are we happy to hear from you! With low supplies, we were starting to get desperate here,” relayed Capt. Paige.

  “It’s our pleasure to help you, and that’s what we get paid for. Your position has been locked in. We should be IVR (in visual range) in fifteen mikes (minutes),” relayed Lt. Meyers.

  A round of applause could be heard on the loudspeaker coming from the scout ship. Capt. Cole appeared satisfied as he marked his entry into his logbook. He then turned to his flight engineer to check his mission status.

  “What’s our fuel situation?” he asked.

  “We’ve got an hour before we hit ‘Bingo’ and have to return home Captain, Sir.”

  Satisfied that the Fortin’s rescue was in the bag, the C
aptain chose to address the crew.

  “Now hear this: We have found the survivors of the Fortin. We shall pick them up in the next quarter hour and return home. I would just like to say, good job everyone! This is the Captain. out.”

  All about the ship cheers could be heard throughout the decks of the cutter sized Red Adair. But for one man, something wasn’t right. Communications officer John Kirby. He had spent hours contemplating the series of what if’s that loomed in his head and weighed it against the statistics of a successful mission. None of this sat well with him as he tried to rest back in his rack. His years of experience on such dangerous long-range search and rescue missions had taught him differently. Though exhausted from his long watch, he could not help but wonder about the faint distress signal that loomed just beyond his communications range.

  ‘Somewhere out there, that has to be a jettisoned escape pod operating on automatic,’ he thought.

  Kirby looked once more at his stopwatch still running as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER III

  The DESOLATe sands

  Hours had passed through the starlit night transitioning into what could be best surmised as a recognizable daytime on the surface of Eros 3117. Connors awakened from his pain induced slumber and slowly opened his tired, weary eyes. As he came to, he could see a heavy ground fog all around him. The eerie mist could have only been illuminated from the dim starlight above, or so he thought. It seemed strange if not primordial to be engulfed in such a fog on this small alien world of its size and class. The concept seemed out of place or at worst the product of his dwindling oxygen mixture that was slowly starving his brain functions into periods of sporadic unconsciousness. For Connors, there was no way to tell what was real or the product of his mind’s own making. His only link to true consciousness was from the trusting voice of his functioning ESC strapped to his wrist.

  Within his LSS suit, Connors could hear nothing more than the sound of his regulator which exacerbated the sound of his troubled breathing. He never liked wearing a space suit for longer than a few hours for it made him claustrophobic and downright uncomfortable especially when answering the unavoidable call of nature should he be forced to find himself in such a desperate situation as he had found himself in. Yet there he was. His worst fear realized as a marooned survivor of a doomed expedition. Connors had survived but could not get out of his uncomfortable LSS suit in the hostile environment of Eros 3117 until rescue before he could alleviate his burdens. For the time being, he could do no more than lay on his back coping with the many pains from his injuries while relying on his LSS suit’s critical functions not to fail him. Given the LSS suits of the Fortin were months overdue for their annual inspection, their reliability posed a significant cause for concern.

  Time was of the essence, and the prospect of rescue so far from the outermost human outpost in space was slim at best yet not entirely out of the realm of possibilities. He hoped the Delta-9 scout ship would come looking for him but with its limited resources and inability to refuel Connors knew that this was improbable. Help would have to come from somewhere else and with time running out, it would have to come soon.

  Castaway, adrift in an ocean of space, what could one do in such a predicament? Connors contemplated such dreary thoughts as he closed his eyes seeking to avoid such resignation from the frightening possibility that he could die out there alone on that rock with his pregnant wife Aya never knowing what became of him. He had to find a way neither allow claustrophobia nor despair impair his sense of judgment much less the loss of hope of ever seeing his wife again. This in itself was its own struggle for maintaining his sanity while struggling to survive. To do this, he would need to find another way.

  Connors remembered the Zen meditations he had learned while he was stationed in Japan and cleared his thoughts to calm his mind. He further imagined hearing the sounds of ocean waves near his favorite spot along the Inland Sea of Japan. This was where he could find his inner Zen and be at ease. There along the rocks along the water’s edge in the shade of lush tall trees to his back, he recalled helping Aya out of the water. She had seen a seashell in the shallow tide pool that caught her eye before accidentally losing her footing and slipping into the shallow water. It had been a beautiful day. He remembered it well for it was the night that Aya’s older brother Hiroshi had asked him to meet him at his favorite Osaka bar on business. That night he agreed to take the replacement flight engineer slot for the DSMV Fortin (while his regular ship the Kure based JDSMV Suma underwent repairs to her hull) for what was supposed to be a 90 day run to the Morton Claim fields. Oh, how he regretted taking that contract! But there was nothing he could do about it.

  What was done was done. Even if he could go back in time, it would serve him no purpose. He could not blame anyone but himself for his decision to go. Aya’s brother was only doing Connors a favor by connecting him with a lucrative opportunity to advance one more commercial pay grade and further his desire to buy their own dream house to start his family. Anything to better his new family’s start while also furthering Aya’s musical aspirations to become a world-class pianist. But if there was any chance of Connors seeing Aya again or in time for the birth of their child, he would have to keep focused to stay alive.

  The time it seemed had passed by within the blink of an eye as the marooned survivor of the DSMV Fortin looked upward to the infinite patchwork of stars overhead. There laying on his back, he moved his hands and grasped the coarse surface sands. They felt coarse and grainy much like certain deserts of Earth. Connors released his grip and watched the sand that contained reflective particles float down like snowflakes in the low gravity of Eros 3117 and wondered.

  ‘Am I going to lose my mind like this? Time to get a grip before I completely lose it,’ he thought.

  He had to take action and do it fast while he still could. Connors sat up and switched his ESC on interactive mode to break the deafening silence.

  “ESC; how long have I been out for?” asked Connors.

  “Your last recorded sleep duration was three hours forty-two minutes.”

  “How much time do I have left?” asked Connors.

  “You have less than sixty-five hours of optimum life expectancy.”

  ‘Sixty-five hours! God help me,’ thought Connors.

  “Rescue beacon status?” inquired Connors.

  “Rescue beacon remains active and is transmitting on high gain frequencies.”

  Connors breathed in deeply and closed his eyes once more.

  “What’s my chance of rescue?” he asked.

  “Insufficient data. Please conserve your limited energy until rescue.”

  ‘Good advice,’ he thought

  Provided someone was out there to intercept his signal and rescue him, his impending fate would become purely academic.

  The marooned survivor sensed he had blacked out again. These momentary occurrences troubled him for he knew his untreated injuries and dwindling 02 supply was working against him. But to fight it would require resources not readily available in his current condition. Instead, he would follow the lesson of the reeds that bent with the wind and see where it would take him so long as it kept him alive. As Connors opened his eyes, he could see what appeared to be daylight, or so he thought, and then he noticed he was out of his LSS suit barefoot dressed in casual white. Everything appeared to be white. His breathing no longer remained so shallow. In fact, he wasn’t sure at all where the hell he was or why the sound of distant waves could be heard.

  ‘Am I dead?’ he wondered.

  Perhaps this was heaven or some state of hallucination? Connors wasn’t sure what was taking place as his vision became blurred and somewhat unbalanced. If he could just have one more unhindered breath as he imagined he was having somehow his perception would right itself.

  Connors looked up and could see gray skies much like that on Earth. He was on a beach somewhere.

  “I’m hallucinating,” he muttered.

  �
��What’s that Sir?” asked the ESC.

  “I am on Eros 3117. I am not here. This is all in my mind,” said Connors.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I do not understand what you are trying to say,” said the ESC.

  This seemed most peculiar to Connors. It was as if the ESC had suddenly developed a personality. He closed and opened his eyes once more expecting to find the cold dark sands and canopy of stars of the Milky Way twinkling overhead. Instead, he was on some beach that resembled Southern California. He noticed his space helmet was removed and he was breathing real air.

  ‘This can’t be!” denied Connors.

  The unmistakable sounds of crashing waves echoed off in the distance. Connors looked up and noticed a seagull passing overhead.

  “This must be a dream, or I am dead,” he guessed.

  “A dream, Sir?” asked the ESC.

  The change in the language of the ESC from a dry monotone computer voice had evolved to a warm and rather polite vernacular with a sense of presence. Connors turned his head to the ESC strapped to his wrist and realized it was no longer there.

  “This is getting really weird,” observed Connors.

  “Weird, Sir? How so?” asked the voice.

  While he was still not sure what exactly was really taking place, the clearly distinct male sounding voice with a recognizable English accent possessed such presence as if there was someone standing adjacent to him. The quality of conversation seemed so convincing that Connors could not help but turn his head to the direction of where this voice was coming from. To his shock, his onetime girlfriend Leanne now deceased was right next to him lying on a beach towel.

  “What?” she asked.

  Suddenly, everything went white again.

  Connors became lost in a sudden dream-like state. One moment he is on this dark, desolate rock in space, the next he is on a beach with his onetime girlfriend Leanne from long ago as alive as the day he last saw her. Connors hadn’t thought of her in some time for he had moved on and married someone else. Leanne appeared so real; it threw him for a loop. He could clearly see her lively blue-green eyes and the waves in her strawberry blonde hair waving in the coastal breeze. He could almost smell her near forgotten scent. It had been over fifteen years since that tragic day when she was discovered pinned to the wheel of her vehicle that had slammed into a tree at high speeds. The accident investigators on the scene had determined was caused due to a mechanical failure. A sudden burst of high acceleration while she was making an S-bank turn on a highway notorious for such fatal accidents. She had no time to react or to regain control of her vehicle. In the time of a split second, she flew off the highway and right smack into an old oak tree. Such a tragic loss of such a promising young woman in the prime of her life. Connors tried to put Leanne’s tragic death behind him. For nine months he drowned himself in booze until one rainy day in San Diego where he had hit rock bottom. Connors couldn’t remember what led him to be thrown out of a bar head first or how landed in a trash-filled back alley. He tried to get past his grief after Leanne’s death but couldn’t let go thus allowing the rest of his life to fall apart around him.