An Alien Rescue

by Gordon Mackay

  Scott noticed a change in Mike’s behaviour; his actions seemed a bit erratic when compared to recently. The eyes had widened again, looking like those of a stereotypical madman’s.

  “Hey, Mike. How’re ya doin?” asked Scott in a jovial fashion trying to sound like a yank.

  Mike responded with a loud sigh. And just like Scott, both Phyllis and Belinda were aware of his mood swings. His silence was deafening as he stood motionless and quiet.

  Scott crept forward, almost like a cat. He didn’t want to startle Mike from his daydream-like state and scare the hell out of him. His approach had to be somewhere in the middle - if it were humanly possible to find it.

  With a hand placed gently on Mike’s right shoulder, Scott said, “I’m not sure, but there might only be one left.”

  With a deep inhaled breath, Mike exhaled, “There is only the one left, an’ am gonna find the gook fuckwit an’ take ‘im out fur ‘is own goddamned good!”

  Scott understood Mike was going through some kind of trauma, having called the Grey a Gook. Inwardly, Scott recognised Mike was still fighting a war, his own tug-off-war. He was supposed to have died, he realised, but the stupid Greys had taken this poor guy from his prospective grave and placed him in something akin to a zoo. Had they watched him, played with his feelings and anxieties, experimented with his mental condition where he’d been broken and subdued? Scott wondered, recalling his own military training where civilians were broken before being built up again, to think like a military cabbage and jump or shoot without question when ordered to. Unlike Mike, and his so-called Gooks, Scott’s military service was more concerned with the Cold-War and terrorisation posed by the Provisional IRA from Ireland or Moslem fundamentalists. The threats of violence from a Fenian army had mainly taken over from a communist regime skulking behind an Iron Curtain. The Warsaw pact wasn’t the foremost danger anymore. No! It was a band of anti-Brit catholic paddy extremists followed by Moslem extremists.

  As a Scot, someone who was born from Scottish parentage in a country that had been attacked and colonised by the invading English hordes many centuries before, he found he could sympathise with a country’s inhabitants that found itself fighting against a much larger and influential government. However, the fact that innocent civilians and military personnel were being murdered and executed on the orders of a few radical militants was beyond any kind of a joke. And like any other serviceman, he would have killed any gun-toting shithead that proved to be a danger to any free democratic population. The bombings in London, Birmingham, and elsewhere in Europe, then the Twin Towers in New York, were proof that those who were behind the atrocities were not fit to live in any country, regardless of their nationality. He had been taught as a child, within the Christian Brethren faith especially, that those who lived by the sword would surely die by the same sharp device and were only fit to enter the gates of a fiery and bloody hell with a one-way express ticket. And that’s exactly where those papist murdering sons of bitches and Moslem suicide bombers should end up!

  An almost forced silence ensued as Mike and Scott fought their own internal fight. Belinda and Phyllis stood silent, deep in their own concentration while not even recognising each other’s presence for that briefest of moments. Individually, they knew the men were fighting within themselves, and who could blame them, they each wondered? Here they all were, travelling through narrow tunnels deep beneath the surface of an alien planet. Mike had been abducted from a ridiculous war where he would surely have perished if they Greys had not taken him. And Scott, because of his unique genes, had been selected to produce children whose own lives would be of special benefit to the human colony that both women belonged to. And if the Grey Empire hadn’t intervened, he would have mated once again and still been unaware of all that had been going on … except for the knowledge that Frell had left within his mind. Belinda and Phyllis didn’t communicate, mentally or verbally. They just waited until both men had fought their own personal and mental battles. They hoped each man would win their own finite war, or they may all need to resort to Plan B.

  Chapter twenty-three

  “Nothing to report sir,” said the Duty Officer as the sub’s Skipper entered the Control Room.

  “Shit!” he replied. “We’re stuck here until the powers at bloody be realise there’s nothing happening. And if there was, the party’s well and truly over and we’ve damned well missed it. I’m half-tempted to just head off towards some golden sandy beach in the Bahamas, letting the crew spend some quality time ashore with young native girls. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind some of that myself.” He couldn’t help but smile at the delicious thought of being pampered by young scantily clad and golden brown girls, all plying him with glasses of chilled rum and gin & tonics while flaunting their good-looks and large cleavages into his wrinkled but happier face. His smile became a quiet laugh. The much younger crewmen that manned the ship’s Control couldn’t help sniggering at their skipper’s almost mutinous comments, each ready to agree with him if asked to, especially the idea of playing with big-breasted game-on babes. Like their Captain, they also had a smile worthy of the happiest Cheshire cat ever born. One rating whispered, “Perhaps we should call him, Mister Christian, from now on.” The others sniggered quietly, trying to hide their sniggering faces.

  Picking up the comm’s microphone, he said, “Captain to the Entertainment Officer. Please see to it that, Close Encounters of the Third Kind is screened in the cinema, immediately following dinner.”

  The entire crew showed a face of disgust at each other, knowing the cheesy movie well enough to be able to write the script.

  “Also, do we have a copy of South Pacific in our movie library?” he asked.

  Following the second question, every member of the crew desperately looked at another for mental support. Thinking it was about to be a very long voyage, with most inserting a finger towards the back of their throat, jovially pretending they wanted to be sick. The movie currently being advertised for that evening’s performance was, Apocalypse Now, which they loved and enjoyed more than any other film, except perhaps, Dirty Harry featuring Clint Eastwood as Inspector Callaghan, the hard cop who hated, pencil-pushing sons of bitches; a great catchphrase and loved by all aboard the vessel. They would happily have watched either movie many times without wanting to chuck-up. The Entertainment Officer’s shoulders drooped at the prospect of showing the Captain’s personal choice of viewing, wondering if he could fool everyone into believing he was having a heart attack or a condition equally bad enough to get him transferred into the Medical Centre where they have a separate cinema system, one for each bed. He knew how he felt and wondered if the rest of the crew might be considering the same desperate avenue of escape. Reuters, he thought, would have a fantastic scoop if they did. He imagined the Stop-Press report hitting every front page of every daily throughout the world in big black bold lettering. An active nuclear submarine, currently on station in the South Atlantic and armed with several atomic warheads, has suffered a strange medical emergency where ninety-nine percent of its crew reported life-threatening heart attacks. The World Health Organisation (WHO) has raised important questions with the United Nations special safety committee concerning the possibility of radioactive side effects and demands an immediate inquiry into the unexplained event. Many of the planet’s environmentally aware groups, such as Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth, have joined forces in an unparalleled and unprecedented union, where they are equally applying pressure for honest and unbiased answers, stating how they fully expect a military cover-up with a Press gagging-order to follow. A Presidential spokesman on behalf of the Pentagon has declared there is no cause for alarm as there is still one member of the crew unaffected. He is reported to be the highest ranking naval officer on board and is operating the entire submarine single-handedly; such is its ease of use and advanced construction with an enviable and unequivocal safety record. The unusual and unprecedented situation is said to be safely under control. Th
e submarine is currently heading for the nearest friendly port in the Bahamas, where emergency first-aid and resuscitation teams are on standby with lots of rum and young ladies to aid the crew’s recovery. With a growing smirk he couldn’t possibly conceal, even though he tried hard to, he released a loud guffaw laugh. A few heads not so surprisingly turned to look at him and wondering if he might possibly be looking forward to seeing the movies, actually believing he was. “He’s a sick bastard,” said one rating under his breath to his mate.

  “Yeah, always wondered about ‘im,” he replied turning around to face his control panel again. “Imagine looking forward to seeing ‘em sad friggen movies!”

  “Yeah… real sick.”

  Deep beneath the ocean, watertight and hidden, the Greys waited patiently. All incoming transmissions were analysed, including any audible announcements made on the overhead submarine’s Tannoy. The instructions regarding the films weren’t fully understood, but then most of the orders and commands weren’t either. What they did listen for was anything that might appertain to their own presence and discovery. So far there hadn’t been any sign or sound of information that might be relevant to their position so continued to monitor the submarine’s status and broadcasts while wondering what might be so important about two films.

  Scott jumped out of his trance-like condition, feeling as if he’d been sleep-walking for a while. Mike still wrestled within himself with eyes twitching like that of a raving lunatic released by mistake.

  The Grey commander on Mars left the safety of his Control, easing himself through the doorway and around a corner to head along the tunnel towards the ship that could get him out of there. His footsteps never made a sound as he carefully placed each foot softly on the sterile floor. He knew the murderous group were not too far away and didn’t want to make any kind of a noise that could alert them to his position. There was a long distance to cover so he tried to go as quickly as he could while trying to remain silent.

  Mike snapped from his dilemma, jumping like a cat on a red-hot roof. Belinda and Phyllis jumped too, surprised by his unexpected action. Scott just shook his head, believing Mike was more of a danger to the mission than he was as a helping hand. He couldn’t say though.

  “Mike?” asked Belinda. “Are you feeling all right? Is there anything you need or perhaps we can help you with?”

  Looking downwards with leaden eyelids, he replied he was fine. Phyllis placed her left hand on one of Mike’s shoulders, indicating she was concerned for him. He in turn placed his own hand upon hers; not saying anything as he felt the stumps and scorched flesh crack beneath the weight of his own. She almost passed out with the pain. The shock of the physical contact was so intense it was picked-up by Belinda, Scott and the fleeing commander. With her head swooning with the agony, Phyllis began to sway. Scott urgently stepped forward, almost knocking into Mike as he did, catching her in his arms. He felt the momentum of her dead weight pulling him over, trying to recover his balance as Mike lunged to the rescue. Scott was amazed how quickly Mike had reacted. He had believed he was still half asleep or in a trance, so was surprised by his ultra-fast speed. Belinda also rushed to her aid, placing both hands beneath her head as the men gently laid her down onto the tunnel’s floor. Her breathing was quick and beads of sweat had appeared on her forehead. They realised how serious her condition was.

  Mike was the first to speak. “If this leads to a medical facility, might there be something that could be used to help her?”

  Belinda thought for a moment. “Perhaps, and if there is something ahead that can help we must get her there quickly!”

  “I absolutely agree,” added Scott, who was checking her pulse and pallor.

  “Right then,” said Mike without hesitation. Lifting her on his own, he practically tossed her over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. She released a small groan, which receded into silence.

  “Hey, Mike. Take it easy for fuck’s sake?” said Scott in alarm as he’d witnessed the way he’d lifted her.

  “Hey, Scott,” he replied sarcastically. “Shut the fuck up! She’s unconscious so she don’t know shit!”

  Scott was completely taken aback by the abruptness of his actions and his choice of repertoire, so did as he had been told. He recognised Mike had done this before… probably in ‘Nam.

  “I know what the hell I’m doin’ so pickup Akay and bring up the rear. Hey... Admiral... don’t even think about fondling her either – she’s all mine!”

  But before Scott could even think of a reply Mike was already running with Belinda close on his heels. Scott knew this wasn’t the time to say a word, especially as there was no one left to speak to, so followed Mike’s hasty lead.

  The commander was becoming pleased with himself, believing he’d escaped the devious clutches of the evil group who were responsible for destroying his army of clones. Allowing himself a burst of extra speed as silence was now no longer an issue... or so he mistakenly believed. He was already running the pre-takeoff checks through his mind as his spindly thin legs carried him along like a two legged spider chasing after a tasty insect. The mental checklist had just reached the propulsion tubes purging stage when he popped into full view of the advancing group. His legs buckled as he tried to stop quicker than he possibly should have. His body skidded forwards, almost surfing through the tunnel while trying to stop, looking like a character in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. His footing gave way, making him land with a clatter as it seemed his bony structure contained no padding or protection whatsoever. The smoothness of the floor allowed him to travel a few more metres than he wished to, an involuntary manoeuvre of spinning along the tunnel towards the humans with a look of shock deeply etched across his face. Mike hit the brakes, planting his size twelve feet squarely on the tunnel floor.

  Belinda shouted, surprised that she did so, “That must be the leader of this base! We need to catch him!” And before anyone else could react she was on him like a tonne of blue clothed bricks. The Grey was pinned to the floor by Belinda, forced down by her weight and determined grip. Her quick reactions had knocked the air from her heaving chest, forcing her to try and suck in as much oxygen as possible to make up for the loss. The sound of her inhalations and heaving chest upon his own, the commander mistakenly believed he was about to be eaten. With an ear-piercing shriek like a banshee on the loose he let out a squeal that hurt everyone’s ears. In obvious pain, Mike let out a few oaths as he stepped forward, stomping on the commander’s fingers to shut him up.

  “That’ll give ya something to scream about you ugly little mother-fucker!” he said through gritted-teeth. He was more than happy to be giving the thing that squirmed under his foot some well-deserved pain. Unfortunately for Mike’s ears, and that of the others, the squeal only got louder. The fact the commander had already been in pain and letting the rest of Mars know about it, before the added agony from such a heavy foot caused even more noise, didn’t seem to connect with Mike’s brain. He thought was that by administering even more pain the surprise and shock of it would shut him up. Wrong! The increased levels of pain just made him holler all the more.

  Unable to cover his ears due to carrying Phyllis, Mike removed the pressure of his foot from the trapped fingers and just kicked him in the head instead.

  “That worked!” he said proudly as the pain in his ears subsided much quicker than a few million aspirin could ever have done. “Fuck you, you noisy piece of shit!” he added in relief, while also wondering if he’d killed the thing that now lay completely motionless, and thankfully silent, at his feet.

  “Bloody hell,” said Scott. That was worse than a bunch of cats during a full moon.

  Belinda felt she could add to the topic. “I have not heard anything as loud and as ear piercing as that since hearing a female Tropian Caraptor from the Troxilian system laughing at a stupid joke about Greys giving birth.

  Both men looked at each with open mouths, wondering what on earth a Tropian Caraptor thing might be, then gulping at the
thought of Greys giving birth, imagining thin sharp bones catching and ripping the flesh off any brat that might dare to exit a female. Then Mike went that little bit further and tried to imagine two Greys having a quick shag. That stopped him in his regrettable tracks for a moment as his brain began to seize at the mind-boggling scene!

  “What’s so stupid about Greys giving birth?” Scott eventually managed to ask.

  “They do not give birth,” she replied with a grin. “There are no females.” Once again the men looked at each other.

  “No females? ” said Mike. “I guess it means they're all just a bunch of fag's after all! ” The men smirked at the humour, before returning their attention to the Base Commander.

  “Is he still alive?” asked Scott, without showing any concern in his voice.

  “Dunno!” replied Mike giving him a severe testing kick, although smaller than his previous.

  “That was very military of you, Mike,” said Scott, laughing.

  “I could’ve done worse,” he answered, grinning, wishing he had.

  “Not much,” Scott added.

  Belinda moved forwards, kneeling down to the prone figure at Mike’s poised feet. “Yes. He is alive.”

  “Won’t be if he makes that friggen racket again!” insisted Mike while looking at his feet.

  Blinda sighed heavily while giving him a sideways glance. “We need this being to complete our mission here, Mike, so don’t resort to any more of your violent tactics. Please?”