by Tom Barber
He looked back at Miller, who’d lowered his rifle and paused.
He was staring hard at an area directly in front of the truck.
‘What is it? Footprints?’
Miller shook his head and peered closer, wondering if he’d hit his head harder than he thought.
It looked as if some small bits of rock and dust were hovering in the air.
He reached down and grabbed a handful of sand, then threw it at the gap in front of the truck.
It made a tinkling sound as it landed on something.
Something metallic.
Miller stepped forward and reached out with his hand.
He felt cold, hard steel; although there was seemingly nothing there.
He ran his hand over the side and felt curvature.
Whatever the thing was, it was large.
Olson watched Miller and did the same on the other side, his eyes wide as his hand ran over something metal yet invisible.
‘What the hell is this?’ Olson asked.
Miller grabbed some more handfuls of dust and threw them at the invisible shape, getting an idea of its rough outline. He walked alongside the shape, feeling his way, sliding his hand along the invisible metal.
Suddenly, his hand ran off the edge and hit air.
He looked and saw that his hand had disappeared, just invisible halfway up his forearm.
He opened and closed his fingers, clenching his fist, but he saw nothing.
He withdrew his arm and suddenly his hand reappeared.
‘Whoa.’
He put his foot forward and half his leg vanished.
As he looked down, he noticed a stain on the dust by his other foot.
Blood.
There were also scuff marks in the dirt, as if someone had been injured and crawled here.
He knelt down and touched the blood-stained ground.
It was still slightly moist.
Whatever had bled hadn’t lost the blood too long ago.
There were also some small shapes lying in the dust near the stains; shell casings from an automatic weapon, nine of them in total, enough for two quick staccato bursts of fire.
Looking at them, Miller sniffed and caught the faintest hint of gun oil in the air.
Using the light from the headlights, he looked down and saw a series of boot-prints in the dust.
One set to his right were erratic and irregular, someone walking backwards maybe.
He noted that there were more stains beside the prints, blood-stains, both of which disappeared into the gap beside him.
‘What is it?’ Olson asked, having joined him.
‘I think it’s a ship.’
Lifting his assault rifle, Miller rose and turned to his left, where the trail of blood ended.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.
And suddenly disappeared out of sight.
*
Miller was a Corporal with the 101st, so he’d never had the opportunity to get inside one of these vessels before, although he knew what they were and exactly who used them.
As he looked around, he saw the interior of the ship made the Spartan USSS Ford transport look like a rowboat in comparison.
Although the power was out there were controls, panels and screens everywhere, the likes of which he’d never seen.
There were also four dead guys inside.
And they’d been massacred.
Miller heard a gasp as Olson stepped inside behind him and saw the quartet of dead men.
All four of them were wearing black camo paint on their faces.
One of them was lying by Miller’s feet, the guy who’d dragged himself back inside the vessel, leaving a blood-stained smear from outside the ship and eventually dying right there just inside the door.
‘Who are they?’ Olson asked.
‘Special Forces,’ Miller said. ‘Delta.’
As Olson stared at the corpses, Miller looked at the damage to the interior of the vessel.
Whatever had happened, there’d been one hell of a fight.
The men had fired weapons from right in here and there were huge gouge marks on the walls, much of the interior ripped apart and hanging loose.
The ammo had hit the side and mushroomed before falling to the floor.
There were shell casings everywhere and the air still smelt of cordite.
Miller knelt down beside the body nearest the door and felt for a pulse.
‘This happened recently.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘This man’s body is still slightly warm.’
Miller looked over his shoulder at the doorway.
‘He must have been the guy we heard scream. He was the one who fired his weapon, the last one to die; he must have been separated from the others. There were shell casings outside, bloodstains and boot-prints. He was wounded and retreated. He fired from the doorway, then dragged himself back in here and died.’
‘But we didn’t hear anything else,’ Olson said, pointing at the devastation. ‘All this would have made a hell of a noise.’
‘Step out for a moment.’
‘Huh?’
‘Do it.’
Olson looked at him.
Then he stepped back through the entrance and stood alone outside the ship.
He waited in the silence, then stepped back in. The moment he did, he heard Miller shouting, which startled him.
Miller stopped and knocked on the hull with his fist.
‘These things are totally soundproof. You wouldn’t have heard the weapons’ reports.’
He looked over at the dead man near the door.
‘We only heard that one burst because he briefly made it outside. Then he crawled back in and died’
He looked at the carnage.
The damage to the hull.
The bloodstains and marks on the walls.
‘Whatever killed them got right in here with them.’
Pause. He turned to Olson.
‘And these guys don’t get taken by surprise.’
The two men looked at each other for a moment.
Then Miller shifted his gaze and walked over to one of the dead men on the left of the cabin, dropping to a knee beside the body. He patted him down out of habit but knew he wouldn’t find anything. Soldiers like this didn’t have dog-tags, letters or any personal belongings on them and for damn good reason.
They were like ghosts, never identified, the best soldiers the military had.
He glanced around the aftermath of this contact.
They’d had their asses kicked here.
Miller had seen some of the Delta Force guys passing through MC1, and there were all sorts of rumours concerning the gear they used. One of them was a stealth-cloak, pioneered by the Japanese and patented by the US. It was mouldable fabric covered with thousands of tiny camera cells that reflected what was in front of them but to the other side of the garment. Snipers used them to great effect, becoming totally invisible, and it allowed infantry teams to move around basically undetected.
Apparently, they’d developed similar technology for their ships.
Their weaponry was high-tech; exotic weapons fresh off the production line, no well-worn rifles like Miller’s crew. Miller had run into some of their guys on the range and had looked on with interest at the black assault-rifles they’d been practising with.
Looking down, he noticed one of those same high-tech assault rifles had been sheared in two and dumped on the floor. Something had cut through it like a knife through butter. There were three other rifles lying on the floor around the ship, but judging by the amount of shell casings littering the place Miller didn’t need to check to know the weapons were empty.
He rose and walked over to the cockpit as Olson checked the rest of the cabin.
One of the dead men was slumped across the controls, terrible wounds to his back.
Miller didn’t touch him, but saw where his limp hand was resting and recognised the device under his lifeless fingers.
>
All ships had them.
‘This man was trying to key in the self-destruct,’ he said, looking over at Olson. ‘He almost made it.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he knew he was going to die.’
Olson didn’t reply.
Miller studied the panel in the cockpit and pushed two buttons; some of the electronic equipment suddenly coming on.
As Olson looked at all the lights, Miller studied the main screen and swore.
‘Son of a bitch!’ he hissed. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What?’
‘The ship is missing one of its rockets.’
He paused.
‘These guys are the ones who shot me and my team down.’
‘Why would they do that?’ Olson asked. ‘You’re on the same side.’
Miller looked at the limp hand across the blood-smeared panel and tried to picture the sequence.
‘I don’t think he meant to fire it. I think it was an accident.’
Miller paused; then he turned and looked at Olson.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like why there’s an elite team of soldiers massacred inside a ship that’s been here for hours at least.’
‘What do you expect me to say? Our job is to survey the land and mine it. We’re not here to fight or cause trouble. We had no idea these men were here.’
Miller pointed at the dead bodies.
‘These guys are the best of the best. And look at them. What the hell are they doing here?’
‘I don’t know!’ Olson insisted.
Miller shook his head in frustration, then looked around the cabin for things to salvage.
The gunfire had destroyed a lot of the interior, but he saw a bag of flares on the floor. Grabbing the satchel, he took a handful and stuffed them into his pocket, then checked around the dead men for anything else that could be of use. Their weapons were useless, two of them destroyed and the other without any ammo, their pistols expended, shell casings and blunted fired bullets everywhere.
As he checked the cockpit, he noticed that there were two shotguns stowed there, back-up firepower. He moved forward and released them; they were both high-tech, extended ten-shell capacity and a damn sight more effective than air guns.
He found a box of shells and stuffed it into his BDU pocket, then turned back to Olson.
‘We go to Marker B, we get your two men, then we haul ass back to the station and stay there until the transport comes. No one leaves. If your two guys aren’t at the Marker, then tough shit. They can figure it out for themselves.’
‘OK,’ Olson said, glancing around the tomb of a ship.
Miller thought about loading one of the shotguns and passing it to Olson, but changed his mind and gave him the Beretta from his thigh holster.
Olson looked at the pistol for a moment, then took it.
‘Just try not to kill me,’ Miller said, heading for the door and stepping back outside.
FIFTEEN
The Dodge had been more badly damaged from the collision with the Delta Force ship than the two men had anticipated, which meant they were forced to make the rest of the journey to Marker B on foot.
Miller had been on some tense walks in his time. Patrols in hostile worlds, sentry duty on Europa #112, going back to get wounded comrades under intense fire. But all of those times, he’d known who the enemy was and he’d had someone covering his back.
This time, he had no idea who or what the hell he was dealing with and the only back-up he had was Olson, which was no comfort at all.
As they walked across the barren moon, and while he was constantly scanning around them, Miller tried to put the pieces together.
The Delta guys inside that ship were some of the toughest bastards there were, but they’d been completely annihilated.
They always worked in teams of six or eight, which meant either two, or four of them were still missing, still here somewhere.
One of them had also been trying to blow the ship. Those guys were renowned for their toughness, yet the dead man over the self-destruct panel had been about to destroy a seriously expensive and high-tech piece of equipment with a group of them inside.
Miller recalled that hair-raising scream he’d heard earlier, coming from the man who’d crawled back inside the vessel.
It would take a hell of a lot to make a Delta guy make a sound like that. And compared to him and the rest of the Special Forces team, Olson and co were like baby deer beside a pack of wolverines.
Right now all Miller wanted was to get inside some walled protection. He felt horribly vulnerable out here on the plain, and couldn’t shake Keller’s sudden, unexpected appearance and then disappearance out of his mind, half-expecting him to suddenly appear in front of them again.
Walking on, he saw Marker B come into view and started picking up the pace, all his senses on alert, Olson silent beside him as they headed towards the building.
As they approached, Miller saw the second Marker was the exact same style and structure as the other building, a big B in white lettering painted on the side.
He also saw with relief that the second Dodge was pulled up outside the building, the tracks leading back from the way they’d come. He’d been banking on that to get them back to the station.
It also therefore looked as if Dawson and Harrison were inside.
As he and Olson approached the entrance, they could see the door was shut. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad sign.
Miller checked around them as he took up a position in front of the door. Beside him, Olson lowered the shotguns to the ground as quietly as he could, then stepped forward to the side of the entrance as before, gripping the pistol tight.
He pushed the button.
Miller looked down his scope as the panel slid up.
This place was pitch dark and empty, just like the other Marker.
Miller couldn’t detect any heat signature. He stepped forward into the room slowly, checking left and right, noting the interior was an exact replica of Marker A, including all the debris on the floor.
Clearly these guys weren’t very house-proud.
Olson tried a switch by the door, but no lights came on.
‘Power’s out.’
Miller didn’t reply.
He’d detected a familiar smell.
He looked over at the ladder in the corner of the floor.
Olson did the same. Clicking on his flashlight, he stepped forward and passed Miller his Beretta back.
Holding the torch between his teeth, he took hold of the top rung with his spare hand then descended, disappearing out of sight.
Miller heard him drop down and gasp.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Come see!’
Miller slung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed the top rung and climbed down quickly, joining Olson on the lower deck.
He was standing still, pointing the flashlight across the level.
Miller turned and took an instinctive step back.
Judging from the smell, he’d anticipated death.
But he hadn’t expected this.
Harrison and Dawson were both there, their bodies lying against the wall, dressed in t-shirts and overalls just like the other three.
Olson’s flashlight was pointed at one of their faces, the beam of light shaking.
Miller saw a dead black guy whose face was frozen in terror.
He took the flashlight from Olson’s quivering hand, as he seemed about to drop it, and shone it on the other man.
Harrison was a white guy, but had that same frozen expression, his eyes as wide as saucers, his mouth locked open, both men’s bodies rigid with terror.
Their dead eyes staring straight ahead.
It was the most chilling thing Miller had ever seen.
It looked as if both guys had suffered heart failure.
There was nothing around the
m save for a portable radio. Neither of the dead men had a mark on his body, the expression on their faces the only indication of how they’d died.
Dragging his gaze away from the two dead men, Miller grabbed Olson’s shoulder.
‘Back to the station, now!’
*
Using the other Dodge, Miller and Olson torched it back, Miller happy for the first time with Olson’s manic driving as they sped across the landscape, his horror at what had been done to both the Delta team and Harrison and Dawson outweighing his fear of colliding with another invisible object.
As Olson put his foot down, they crested a rise and saw the station up ahead, the distant shape of Weathers standing there alone in the control room.
They roared on, bumping and rattling as they plummeted down the other side of a ridge, desperate to get inside the building.
They eventually jerked to a halt outside the station, the grille of the garage still down. The two men jumped out, Olson clutching the two shotguns as Miller ran to the small side door beside the closed grille. Weathers and Garcia had left it unlocked for the two men when they came back, but Garcia was keeping watch on the lower floor just in case. It wasn’t a sliding door but an old design with a handle and lock.
The two men ducked inside, Miller closing the door behind them and locking it.
Then the pair headed upstairs immediately, passing the two dead bodies of Haas and Rodriguez laid on the ground, Miller having a quick flashback and remembering Keller’s body was still missing.
They joined Weathers in the control room who’d seen them pull up and was waiting for them.
‘There you are,’ she said, immediately seeing the two shotguns in Olson’s arms. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘Dawson and Harrison are dead,’ Olson replied, dumping the weapons on the table.
‘What?’
‘We found a ship out there too; four dead men inside. Corporal Miller thinks they were Special Forces.’ He pointed at the shotguns. ‘That’s where these came from.’
Weathers stared at him.
‘How did they die?’
‘Violently,’ Miller said, looking outside at the darkness below.
‘So what do we do?’
Miller pointed at the door.
‘We seal that shut, then sit here with every weapon we have aimed at that door until rescue gets here in eighteen minutes. Then we take off and head for MC1. Where’s Garcia?’