Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (16 page)

CHAPTER 9

Red Sky in the Morning

Elysium Planitia – 26 December
06:38 Martian Corrected Time

“Where are you now? I mean the exact coordinates,” enquired Andy Baillie impatiently.

“Cross coordinate four, four, nine, North East Sector. Close to the no-go zone. Anyway, you should know that from your display.”

“Satellite tracking is out of sorts this morning, Paul. Too much sand in the lower Maronosphere. Listen, can you see the sensor array in that sector? From your position the line should be quite close – say, one and a half clicks south?”

“The visibility is about five clicks here . . . Yes, yes, I can see them, I can see the terminals.” Paul Carr captured the image and then lowered his grid-enhanced binoculars. He pressed the button under his right thumb and downloaded the image into the PTSV’s navigation computer. Then he touched the screen of the adjacent monitor, made a selection on the keypad and displayed what he had seen. Pressing lightly on the screen and with a spreading motion of his fingers he magnified an area of particular interest. A distant row of radio masts loomed towards them on the screen and another selection digitally enhanced the image until their latticed construction – a design akin to electricity pylons – was clear and sharp. Set approximately three hundred metres apart and connected by a number of drooping cables, the masts stretched away into the distance in both directions. “Okay, okay, here we go . . . one-point-five-two-two kilometres to be precise – not a bad guess.”

“Good. I’d like you to run the line. Check something out for me – particularly the SR15 to SR27 terminals?”

Paul Carr selected another page on the touch-sensitive monitor screen and emboldened
SR15
from a list with the cursor and then pressed the enhance key. Immediately the image skewed off to the right and focused on the mast in question. “Yes, sir, I have it, bearing one, six, niner – range, three-point-three-five. We can take a little drive over there and run the inspection no problemmo. Get back to you in an hour – anything special?”

“The annual inspection of this sector is due next month anyway, so run the full integrity check please Paul, and make a recording.”

“Will do. I’ll get back to you.”

Paul Carr, a thirty-something astronaut who had majored in physics at Stockholm University, but who originally hailed from the north of England, glanced across at his driver and smiled. “Okay, Lesley, let’s go to it,” he said, engagingly. “Three more days on the road and we go home. Tell you what, when we get back to Osiris, I’ll take you for a steak in Stargazers – first night. What d’ya say?”

Also English, Lesley Oakley stared blankly back at the service vehicle commander. He had climbed into the cockpit and now sat beside her in the observer’s seat with wide eyes seemingly in anticipation of a definite acceptance of the invitation. Lesley shook her head, breathed a long sigh and looked away with an expression of mild contempt. She began aligning the navigation display with the target coordinates transferred from the stored image. There were three other scientists in the forward compartment and one of them silently attracted the attention of her colleagues by waving her hands. With hunched shoulders she pointed forward towards the cockpit and mouthed, “He’s asked her out.” The other two women stifled giggles.

Lesley Oakley, seemingly ignoring the proposal, made a few other selections and then engaged the autopilot. A cue flashed green on her instrument panel. Her finger hovered over the drive button and then she looked up. “Three weeks on station in this twenty-by-four tin can, listening to your jokes and being subjected to your pathetic attempts at cooking – when you weren’t attempting to skip the catering roster – and then that snoring every night . . .” She paused and looked the dark-haired man in the eyes. “And you have the audacity to offer me a veggie burger?”

Paul Carr nodded a slightly gormless confirmation; there was hope in his eyes.

“Okay . . . I accept!”

The vehicle pulled away with a jolt.

The large Alpha-type Personnel Transport and Service Vehicle kicked up billowing clouds of red dust in its wake as it drove along the eighteen-kilometre line of radio masts. There were a number of other similar sensor systems installed circumferentially around Osiris Base, at varying distances. As well as being joined by cables to form a long-range array, each mast bristled with aerials, microwave dishes and radar scanners that provided the Scientific and Meteorological Departments in Osiris Base with essential physical and climatic information that was used for both daily planning and long-term research. The radar system was sensitive enough to track isolated sand squalls and moisture pocklets across the planet’s surface, the movement of which aided in forecasting the infamous Martian dust storms that were so debilitating to machines and exposed mechanisms. And ultra-sensitive underground sensors positioned at varying depths beneath each mast correlated seismic activity and tracked Martian tectonic plate movement.

After the first run was complete, Lesley Oakley turned the PTSV around and headed back on a reverse course for the second and final scan. The vehicle’s twelve independently suspended “bubble” tyres transferred a mild vibration to the cylindrical accommodation cell as they traversed a former lake bed, but their bulky electric motors began to complain and the wheels to bounce as the landscape changed from easy undulations to a rock-strewn beach and then a craggy rising escarpment that called for experienced handling skills and careful navigation.

Fine dust and debris, which still loitered in the thin atmosphere as semi-transparent ochre-coloured clouds, now deposited itself on the vehicle’s white paintwork. The rusty-looking sediment soon filled every nook and cranny and from forward-facing corners it spilled over the bodywork in cascading flurries. On higher ground, where the wind picked up, blower motors on maximum setting hummed loudly in their attempt to keep the five cockpit windows clear. And deep tyre tracks in the brick red sand now being reinforced by a second pass caused a scar across the landscape that, together with the intensifying cloud that trailed behind, made the support and research vehicle highly visible from miles around.

Field Officer 1st Class Paul Carr of the European Space and Science Agency studied the sensor trace on a circular display whilst trying to keep his balance. Occasionally he looked up and towards the cockpit with a disapproving expression. Eventually, satisfied, he compressed and saved the trace as a digital pulse and transmitted it to Osiris Base via a passing satellite.

“Osiris Base from Support One, how do you read?”

“Loud and clear, Paul . . . Go ahead please.”

“First run complete. Overview looks absolutely fine. All parameters are well within tolerance . . . no problems that I can see . . . must be one of the more reliable arrays. I’ve sent the trace over and we have commenced the second run – I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, copied, Paul. You’re one hundred per cent sure that there are no anomalies and no visual discrepancies either?”

“Looks clear to me, Andy . . . Have a look at the readout yourself. I see that Comms have received the package.”

“Um, copied, okay, thanks for that; I’ll wait to hear from you then.”

Osiris Base
11:18 Martian Corrected Time

Andy Baillie sat at his console deep in thought. His fingertips played nervously upon his display screen while he ran and re-ran a section of digital imagery. He stared at it, enhanced it, magnified it and manipulated it, in order to find a clue as to the unexplained movement detected by the sensor array terminals in the North East Sector – movement that was impossible. Eventually, but clearly with reservations, he pressed a button on his intercom control panel.

“Good morning, Commander Race here,” was the response.

“Morning sir, um, it’s Lieutenant Baillie here from the Science Department. Have you got a minute please?”

“Yes I have, Andy, what is it?”

“You remember last year, when I arrived, Sir. You said that my job here in Sensor Control was absolutely vital, that the planetary sensor system was key to the safety and survival of Osiris Base, and if I ever had any concerns, no matter how small, how, well, insignificant or off-beat, that I should mention it – draw it to your attention. Well I’ve got something – an anomaly, and it’s niggling me, sir. Something is not right, East Sector . . .”

“I’m coming over, Andy. Give the Head of Department a call too, please.”

Commander Tom J. Race of the United States Air Force, the officer commanding the Osiris Base, stood behind Andy Baillie and stared down at the information presented on screen. Riche Fernandes, a tall, lean, officer of Hispanic descent and Head of the Science Department stood by his side.

“I’m sorry to bother you with this, sir, but something’s not adding up . . . the information I’ve correlated. I’ve checked and rechecked . . . see here . . . and here . . . and here.” Andy Baillie pointed to the screen. “Sensors mounted on these masts, thirteen of them, have detected unknown movement and this trace shows the profile. Look, sir, this shows continuous movement – progressing along the line, passing each terminal in turn. There is no doubt about it. Not only that, I’ve analysed the pattern, taken readings from several other terminals, cross-checked using an algorithm . . . the movement is an exact replication of the human walk. I mean someone has been out there – walking the line, in the North East Sector, making approximately eleven kilometres per hour.”

“So?”

“Sir . . . apart from that being a very energetic jog for most of us and for several kilometres, nobody has been that way for almost a year. I checked the survey records. The last time was when the array had its annual inspection – last February, the eighteenth and nineteenth to be precise.”

“It’s a malfunction then,” said Fernandes, “some ghosting on the digital readout, maybe a scar from a previous recording.”

“No! That’s not possible either. I cleaned the formatting, overlaid the trace, did everything. At least one person, maybe two, walked past that array when every base member was accounted for here at home!”

“Run a check on the entire array,” barked Commander Race. “Bring forward the annual inspection.”

“It’s already under way, sir. Paul Carr has performed the first run; he must be near complete by now. I’m expecting the results for the final scan any time. Here is the readout for the first run. As you can see it checks one hundred per cent – not a single glitch.” Baillie turned in his seat and looked up at the Commander. “Somebody’s been there sir; there is no doubting it,” he said ominously.

Commander Race’s eyes narrowed. “When was this? When did it happen?”

At that, Baillie looked away. His expression was regretful.

“Well!” said Commander Race.

“Sir, I’ve detected similar movement a few times over the last six months. My reaction was the same as that of Commander Fernandes – not possible, a malfunction, some sort of sensor error. I deleted the traces. Decided to wait until the next annual inspection, identify the faults and have them rectified. I mean clearly it was an anomaly,” he concluded embarrassed.

“Timings, Andy! Give me the timings!”

“The first occurrence was back in July, sir. A few days after that bright meteorite came down in the Elysium no-go zone. You remember, we called it the Thanksgiving Meteorite to honour our American colleagues. There have been a few other instances since then and then this last one a few days ago. It’s been on my mind, niggling me, so when Support One was in the area I asked them to run the annual inspection a few weeks early. The rest you know.”

From across the operations room a woman at another console pushed back in her castored chair and attracted Andy Baillie’s attention. “Excuse me, sir. Andy, Paul Carr on the line from Support One. He says he’s finished the survey.”

Andy gestured his acknowledgement. “May I?” he asked respectfully.

Tom nodded. “Put it on open microphone, Andy. I want to ask him a few questions.”

“Paul, Andy here, how do you read?”

“Yes, five by five, no problems. Listen, I’ve finished the survey and checked the second scan . . . nothing. It all looks good to me. I’m sending over the trace now. There is one thing though . . .”

“Paul, Commander Race is with me and the HOD, too. The Commander wants to ask you a few questions.”

“Understood . . . morning sir . . . from the team.”

“Good morning, Paul. First off, what’s on
your
mind?”

“We spotted the main power box open on one of the radio masts – number twenty-seven, sir. A magnified image showed us that the cover had been prised open – I mean how can that happen? Anyway, I sent Martine out to take a look ten minutes ago. She’s on station now. Only she’s found an optical fibre spliced into one of the junctions, as if someone has tapped into the automatic communication and control system. That would give access, electronically, to the entire array. Perhaps even back to the Control Centre.”

Andy Baillie’s eyes widened with disbelief, as did those of the two Commanders. Another officer upon hearing the transmission walked over to the console; he looked totally bemused.

“Where does the optic fibre go, Paul?” Commander Race asked.

“Apparently it disappears in the sand after a few metres, but Martine says that it appears to go off in the direction of the Elysium Pyramids. There’s a dust storm getting up at the moment so we can’t see the structures, but normally from here we could see the pinnacles of Zeta One and Two at least. The power box lid had been bent backwards breaking the lock and then made good and closed to an extent to provide some protection for the circuitry inside. Is any maintenance documented for this terminal? I mean, what self-respecting tradesman would . . . ? Wait a minute, we have a problem . . . Martine’s calling in.” Talking to someone else, Paul Carr said, “What’s she saying? Put her on speaker!”

The voice of Martine Ebury went live in both locations. “I saw something moving a moment ago; behind me by the rocky outcrop. Is Dan outside . . . ? Is anyone else outside?” She sounded fretful.