Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series)

by A J Marshall

  Duval stepped back to move away as Rose touched his elbow. She focused on the strange world for a few more seconds as it turned beneath them and then she looked up at her commander. “But they said that there was a mystical element to these so called Kalahari crystals. I read about it.”

  “Oh . . . so you read about them!” Alex interjected with mild sarcasm.

  Rose ignored him. “Universal energy,” she continued softly, “living energy, the life force of the universe itself . . . It sounds so convincing.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Alex laughed. “We’re talking chemistry and physics, and that’s all there is!”

  Commander Duval, sensing their antagonism, said to Rose, “Yeah, well, I know nothing of mysteries. This deposit is all that has been discovered . . . There are no other similarities anywhere in our galaxy – not that we can detect anyway. That is what makes the element absolutely beyond value. How can you put a price on survival?” Duval shook his head and glanced at the people around him. “Either way, we have one hell of a responsibility.” He paused, pulled his shoulders back and looked again at Mike Matheson. “Go ahead with the plan, Mike!” he said, in a way that was half an order and half a request. “Collect as much as you can without stretching the window. If you can’t make the eighteen kilogram consignment in the time allocated then you leave with what you’ve got. Understand? You get your ass back and we get the hell out of here. Hopefully, in ten months from now when we get back, there still will be a civilisation somewhere on Earth to save.”

  The officers returned to their positions and Commander Duval slowly circled the central console, stopping with each one momentarily. “Everybody ready?” he asked decisively.

  There were nods. “Aye, sir . . . ready . . . looking good . . . let’s go for it!”

  Duval nodded sharply; all seemed ready. “Run the checklist!” he said, and then he quickly scanned a number of system pages as they presented themselves on the screen of his command monitor. Finally satisfied, he typed an initiation code into the computer programme and punched the enter key. Instantly, the checklist appeared on the screen. “Flight controls?” he asked.

  “Systems green, Commander,” replied Steven Tani, a Major in the Japanese Space Agency, his sharp gaze sighting every parameter on his instrument panel.

  “Life support?”

  “Green, Commander, no problems here,” responded Carol Boardman, a British civil servant and a specialist in human physiology. She was a slim, short-haired brunette with a beautiful white complexion and deep brown eyes. She returned the Commander’s gaze for a few seconds before looking down again at her monitor.

  “Remote tracking, Lander support and ascent craft status?”

  “No worries, sir. All systems check A Okay,” said Joe Ansbacher, in a Southern American drawl. He casually rotated a pencil-like screen marker between the fingers of his left hand and leaned back in his chair. He was a former instructor at the tactical fighter pilots’ school that was attached to Sentinel Wing – Earth’s principal air defence squadron based at Canaveral. Ultra-cool, he always looked the top gun type.

  Commander Duval nodded thoughtfully and stood up. “Communications?” he questioned quietly, as he passed Rose Harrington.

  “Restricted, Commander, as Alex explained. I’m measuring an acceptable level of signal attenuation all the way down, so I do not expect problems during the flight phase. With the Lander on the surface, however, it will be a different story, I’m afraid.”

  “Specify?”

  He knew well enough the nature of the problem, but he wanted it recorded in the flight log, just in case.

  Rose enlightened him: “As Io rotates, and without a geostationary probe in position, over the horizon communications will be intermittent, Commander. Nonetheless, I’m confident that there will be enough of a signal reflected from the tube periphery to amplify – so we shouldn’t be out of touch with the pilots for more than a few minutes at a time when they are on the other side. There is nothing long range, however, nothing outside . . . I’ve tried. My transmission comes back sounding like a meteor squeal. Of course our primary sensors are similarly curtailed. Electromagnetic options are severely limited and the radar range appears to be down to approximately one thousand miles.”

  “Confirm communication probe status?”

  “Both probes are serviceable, Commander, but, in the light of the radiation levels we are encountering, their shielding is insufficient – they wouldn’t last two minutes out there.”

  “Understood. Thank you, Rose.” Duval turned to look at a large and more remote console positioned on the other side of the bridge. It was manned by an officer who sat behind an array of flickering screens, including those of two, dated, box-type monitors that had been bolted in a make-shift way onto the deckhead above him. The man wore a faded blue denim shirt with a collar that was open by three buttons and he looked to be in his early fifties, but his weathered features, short greying hair and close-trimmed white beard spoke volumes about his experience. He studied the information presented to him seemingly unaware and certainly unperturbed by Duval’s stare. The green lights from the screens intermittently illuminated him in an eerie way. This was the veteran’s corner. “Engineering . . . ! Viktor! It’s your call,” continued the Commander.

  The man’s reply had a heavy European cadence. Having been on secondment to the ISSF from the Russian Space Agency for most of his career, Viktor Aprashin spoke impeccable English. He nodded reassuringly. “Nothing to stop us Commander; no restriction,” he said, and reached up to tap his fingers on one of the black plastic monitor casings for a few seconds as if to prompt some more data to appear. He grimaced at the results. “Maybe some minor issues with the boom protraxor and some of the outriggers are showing signs of thermal stress, but other than that it’s as good as it gets.” He looked up and met Duval’s gaze. “I say green for go!”

  Duval glanced at Mike Matheson and then back at Aprashin. “The Lander, Viktor, specifically the Lander?”

  “All the self-tests have come back green. She’s fuelled, the navigation system is initialised and the coordinates are downloaded and confirmed – same for the ascent vehicle. Zimmermann has already completed the pre-flight inspection. The Lander and the return module are fully serviceable, Commander. As far as I’m concerned, I say we go!” He sounded very definite.

  Duval turned back to Matheson and then he gestured to Drake. “You both ready? Fed and watered? Checked your hydration levels?”

  “We’re ready, Commander.”

  Duval suddenly raised his hand. “Wait one!” he barked, and turned to Alex. “You sure this is the lowest we can go?” He pointed. “From this display the descent time shows seven minutes longer than planned. That’s a lot of extra gamma rays for these guys?”

  “Commander, I can only reiterate,” replied Alex, with eyes widening in response to the cross-examination. “The surface is a mass of active volcanoes and some of the plumes are higher than we thought. The one you can see on the main screen in the south-western sector is higher than Mount Everest, and it’s throwing ash up almost forty thousand metres . . . a hundred and thirty thousand feet! I can’t risk a lower orbit than this . . . no way! This is as low as it is safe to go.”

  Duval looked him in the eye. He knew Alex always erred on the safe side, and he preferred that, but taking into account the return flight this was months, perhaps a year, off a man’s life. There was a thoughtful silence on the bridge.

  Alex turned and faced the two pilots; he knew the implications of the situation as well as anyone and his expression reflected his concern. “The safety of the ship and you two is prime.” He pulled his gaze back to Duval. “My lateral infrared imager is already skimming the outer corona,” he continued, feeling a more forcible explanation was necessary. “You order me closer than this and we could get caught by a plume and could burn up before they get back – and that’s the reality of it. Even at this orbital concentricity it’s going to be pretty hairy!
”

  Commander Duval nodded. “Copied,” he said purposefully. “Rose, make a note in the log, please. Command approval given at 09:35, Universal Corrected Time.” He looked sternly at Matheson and Drake. “Okay – suit up and go to it! We launch in one hour. Any kind of problems and you abort immediately – got that? You throw it away and you get the hell back here! That’s an order!”

  Matheson nodded and smiled faintly. He gestured to Drake to follow him. As he passed Carol Boardman, Matheson touched her lightly on the shoulder and looked into her eyes. In his white, flame-proof undersuit that was proudly badged like a racing car driver’s coveralls, and with his close-cropped fair hair and piercing blue eyes, he appeared the classic all-American astronaut. The look that passed between them did not go unnoticed by the rest of the bridge.

  “Good luck,” Carol whispered.

  Matheson smiled for a brief moment and then both men left the bridge in silence.

  The International Spaceship Hera was a Class 2 mineral exploration craft built with specific modifications for the Phobos and Io missions. The Phobos excursion in 2052 had been a near disaster and a massive disappointment; however, analysis during the low orbital manoeuvres had confirmed that the mineral composition of the rocky deposits they had hoped to retrieve did not, in fact, match that of the Kalahari crystals, although chemically they had initially appeared identical. It had taken the International Space and Science Federation two years to restore its credibility and to raise the money from already hard-pressed governments to launch the Io mission, all the while rejecting advances of funding from the disgraced international conglomerates Spheron, Tongsei and Epsilon Rio. Indeed, there had even been threats of forced acquisition and reports of corrupt ISSF officials feeding vital information to the conglomerates in order to aid their takeover bid. But that was only rumour; as always, nothing was ever proved. In fact, it was near impossible to restrict the ruthless influence of the world’s three largest industrial multinationals, despite numerous restraining orders by host countries. In senior political circles – although few would openly admit it – substantive wealth, industrial power and political persuasion had already slipped through the fingers of many national governments. Regional governing bodies such as the European Democratic Republic and the Asian Union had little leverage over the faceless men who ran these three giant companies whose policies and aims remained shrouded in secrecy. Based on previous experience, however, subjugation, domination, and, inevitably, world control, seemed their ultimate goal; whilst corruption, extortion, bribery and death were simply tools to achieve it.

  Retrospectively, the Phobos mission had been wishful thinking on the part of the International Space and Science Federation – an opportunity to take the upper hand, to secure a resource that was owned by no one and shared by all. Phobos was much closer to the Earth for one thing and, with Osiris Base on Mars as a staging post, it was a much more convenient opportunity logistically than Io. What’s more, it was a dead place, inert, inhospitable to a point, but above all else one with almost zero gravity, making a landing easier. Io, on the other hand, was a very different prospect. On this small world, far from the sun and one that should have been coated with ice, every natural force was disproportionate. Every chemical was caustic. Every breath would be a challenge.

  “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.