Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (58 page)

Richard held his breath and waited to die. But there was a delay . . . Unbeknown to him, EMILY’s attention was momentarily diverted as she ejected the pod. The conical, capsule-shaped device fired off from beneath the great, grey, bulk of the
Enigma
on a perfect trajectory for re-entry.

Richard checked the navigation display and at that precise moment he noted them passing through the star line. They were flying flat-out, but not, it seemed, fast enough. His eyes were drawn to the chronometer and so too were Yannick’s. But they were fourteen seconds late and on the sensor screen he could see that the
Enigma
was perhaps another three or four seconds further behind. They had failed, and a tiny white blip on the screen signified the contaminated pod in free-fall. At that precise instant Richard was in two minds as to whether to continue his evasive tactics and fight for their lives, or let it be, as even if he escaped there was nowhere to go; and EMILY would surely deal with the human colonists on the Moon and on Mars, too – in her own time.

Suddenly, an incredibly brilliant white flash passed over his ship and streamed into Space. It was pencil straight and unbelievably radiant so that even through his darkened visor it made Richard’s eyes smart. Had he time to look at the navigation display, Richard would see the flash exactly overlay the ‘star line’. The blinding light disappeared for a moment and then reappeared again. And for another five or six seconds it seemed to illuminate the entire hemisphere. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared.

Richard didn’t wait, but hauled the
Ares
into a hard right-hand turn, all the while waiting to be targeted by the
Enigma
. But nothing happened. He held his breath, kept the turn going until he was pointing in the opposite direction and then flew a collision course – EMILY would not be expecting that manoeuvre and it might destabilise her for a few seconds. Suddenly, Richard closed the thrust levers and the
Ares
started to decelerate. Realising what he was seeing, he reached across and put a hand on Yannick’s shoulder. Yannick traced his eye line and a broad smile lightened his features.

Richard measured the
Enigma
’s
speed as 31 lutens, but the computation indicated a rapid decrease. Within a few seconds it fell to 29 and then to 28 lutens. Based on that rate she would be drifting in an unstable orbit within the hour. Richard was suspicious; EMILY was devious as well as malevolent. He kept his distance and steered the
Ares
so as to maintain his relative position of five kilometres off her starboard bow.

“Put her on screen and magnify by five, Yannick,” Richard ordered. The subsequent picture on the central screen made Richard sit up with surprise. The mighty
Enigma
appeared completely lifeless. There were no lights, no moving scanners, in fact no electromagnetic transmissions of any kind, and the laser initiator appeared locked in an unusual position. Occasionally, flashing streaks of electrical energy crawled over the enormous hulk, like contoured bolts of forked lightning, and Richard pointed out fizzing sheets of blue plasma that played along her thrust tubes – sparking and dancing against the blackness of Space. The
Enigma
had not been destroyed, but the energy beam had effectively electrocuted EMILY, shorting her circuits and burning out her systems.

Richard dropped his shoulders in relief and nodded his approval at Yannick – a gesture that signified much more than just the favourable outcome. He looked up at his instruments and assessed the implications of the numerous flashing lights on the Crew Alert Panel – warnings that prompted him to check the fire extinguisher system and the residual quantities of suppressant – because he had initiated the system in order to dampen the wing fire. Suddenly, he drew a sharp breath. His face turned pale and he stared at Yannick. Immediately, Yannick realised why – they had forgotten the pod. It had completely slipped their minds.

“The bloody pod!” Richard called, and he instantly rammed open the thrust levers and pushed the nose down. Moments later the S2 was in a steep dive. Plummeting towards the Earth, Richard turned west and flew in the direction of New York. “On the sensor display . . . Yannick, can you see it?” he shouted.

In desperation, Yannick adjusted the display’s controls, changing the range and the gain and enhancing the clarity of the picture with weather filters. But there was nothing. He had an idea and superimposed a radar picture on the screen and set the range scale to a hundred miles. The scanner swept left and right – still nothing.

He glanced at Richard, shaking his head. “It must be below the scanner’s maximum down tilt,” he said.

Richard held the full forward stick and checked the pitch angle; the S2 was in a forty-five degree dive and the ship’s structure complained at the severity of the manoeuvre by shuddering and bouncing. It felt like flying through heavy turbulence. With their speed still increasing a red light illuminated on the alerting panel. Richard looked up – it was a skin temperature warning.

“We’re coming in too steep outside the re-entry profile,” Richard screeched, “and we’re burning up . . . ! Keep looking for God’s sake!”

Yannick made adjustments to the screen as quickly as he could. He tried everything, but still there was no sign of the pod. Richard applied full right rudder in an effort to keep the S2 straight. He glanced at the altimeter to see the digital readout momentarily read 70,000 feet. He knew their rate of descent was well outside the limits. The
Ares
plunged Earthwards with its extremities glowing red-hot. Metal surrounding the damaged left wingtip began pealing backwards as the air density increased and Richard glanced over his left shoulder to see burning shards of metal detaching in that area. He checked the fuel panel to ensure all the fuel had been pumped from that wing into centre and right wing tanks – lest they become a fireball.

Down 65,000 feet . . . 61,000 . . . 59,000 . . . 57,000 feet they plunged. Sunlight reflected from the clouds, grew more intense as they neared their tops.

“Still nothing!” Yannick shouted.

Richard cursed and then abruptly fed in full opposite rudder. The S2 immediately snap-rolled to the left, an effect made more so by the ever-increasing drag from the left wing. Almost instantaneously they were inverted. Richard held that position with rudder and pulled back on the stick increasing their dive. The descent rate increased still further.

Suddenly Yannick pointed to the screen. “I see it! I see it!” Right turn thirty degrees! Turn right thirty degrees!”

Richard responded.

Past 53,000 feet they zoomed . . . 52,000 . . . 50,000. The cloud layer loomed. Then it rushed towards them.

“How far below us?” Richard demanded.

Now the ship was vibrating almost uncontrollably. Heavy shudders ran through her structure. Torrents of sparks flooded past the windscreen and a cacophony of warning lights had illuminated on the panel. To add to the bedlam, a woman’s warning voice called: “Rate of descent! Rate of descent! Pull up! Pull up!”

Yannick had to shout to be heard. “Twenty thousand feet below us! Eighteen thousand, seventeen, sixteen . . . A few seconds Commander and you’ll be on it!”

Suddenly the
Ares
plunged into the clouds and the brilliance outside was subdued. In the flight deck it quickly grew dark and a smell of burning permeated through the air vents. It was time to make a decision, but what could Richard do? It was too late for the laser; they were well outside its operating parameters even if he could target the pod. They passed 39,000 feet and then 37,000 feet. Richard rolled right-side-up and glanced at the sensor display – the pod was thirty miles ahead and just 5000 feet below. He had to react quickly otherwise he would pass it. Immediately, he closed the thrust levers and pulled back slightly on the nose, arresting the rate of descent. There was only one thing he could do!

“Yannick! Do as I say! No questions . . . ! Get out of your seat, go back and get into the Assault Pod. Strap into the front seat nearest the door – there are controls on the arm rest. If I’m not with you in thirty seconds you eject. Do you understand?”

Yannick nodded; his eyes were afraid.

“Do it!”

Richard wrestled with the controls; he was flying blind. Yannick scrambled from his seat. The pod in free-fall was ten miles ahead of him and 2000 feet below, but
his
altimeter indicated 29,000 feet, then 28,000 feet and then 27,000.

Richard homed in on the pod using the sensor display. At five miles he matched its level, but then checked back precisely on his controls in order to slip just fifty feet below it. Then his higher speed closed the gap. He monitored the skin temperature gauges, but found that the cloud had cooled down the S2’s structure sufficiently for the associated warnings to extinguish. In desperation, he glanced at the left wingtip; there was a chance that his plan would work because the contorted metal caused additional friction, and there was still a glow in that area from residual heat.

The altimeter read 20,000 feet at that moment, but the numbers decreased at an alarming rate as Richard chased down the pod. He closed the last few metres and then positioned directly beneath it . . . 18,000 feet! Yannick had been gone for fifteen seconds.

Richard reached up to the fuel control panel and switched on a pump that pressurised the fuel system for delivery back into the left wing tank. He knew that the tank was perforated at its outer extremity and that the surrounding metal was hot enough to ignite the fuel. He engaged the autopilot to hold the ship’s parameters . . . 16,000 feet!

Richard unstrapped himself and climbed from his seat. A sudden shudder through the ship threw him off-balance, but he turned and clambered up the back of the co-pilot’s seat. The flight path was becoming unstable and he was being thrown from side to side. He looked back for Yannick, who was in his seat in the assault pod and leaning into the aisle staring at him and – with wild hand movements – willing him to come back immediately. The autopilot called 10,000 feet!

Richard reached up to the fuel panel and pressed a button that opened the fuel valve. Now he had but seconds and he turned and hustled back towards Yannick.

“Come on, sir! Come on!” Yannick shouted.

Richard staggered through the doorway and fell into a seat. As the portal closed the woman’s voice shouted, “Terrain! Terrain! Pull up! Pull up!” from the flight deck.

Richard had only his lap straps secured as Yannick slammed his fist down on the eject button. Instantaneously, they heard an enormous explosion and the assault pod shook so violently that Richard’s arms and legs flailed. Seconds seemed like eternity as the pod was tossed and tumbled. Richard felt the centrifugal force on his body as it spun through the air. He covered his head with his arms and groaned as a small, unsecured item of equipment flew dangerously around the cabin, banging and crashing on the sidewalls and ceiling. His head was a blur. But then, suddenly, the pod’s gyroscopic system cut in and it righted itself, and Richard felt a heavy vibration as the noise of retro rockets firing grew louder and louder until it became deafening. For an instant, the g-force pushed him down into his seat and his body was compressed – he felt his face contort and his cheeks sag. Abruptly the noise stopped, and for a second there was silence. He felt his seat harness tense automatically and pull him into his seat with a moment’s pain in his shoulders, and then there was an enormous but short-lived thud and a powerful judder.

After a few seconds of nothing, Richard pushed himself up in his seat with his feet and looked across at Yannick. The emergency lights flickered momentarily and strange sloshing noises filtered through the open vents in the ceiling; apart from that, everything was quiet. Richard realised the motion was that of the sea. Yannick smiled back at him, albeit uneasily. He felt sore, but they were both in one piece.

Richard released his harness and the straps fell away. He stood hesitantly but hung on to the seat back because of the wave motion. In the quiet, they heard the repetitious bleeping of the emergency beacon. “I think we can get out now,” he said.

CHAPTER 32

Time for Turning

London – Whitehall
6 January – 09:11 Greenwich Mean Time

“Good morning, I’m Richard Reece.”

“Good morning, sir. My name is Sally; I’m Mr Rothschild’s new PA.”

“Really . . . I didn’t know. Things don’t usually change around here.”

Peter Rothschild walked into the lobby from his office. As usual he looked smart in a dark blue pinstriped suit and a pair of shiny black shoes. “Richard,” he said, “good to see you.” He raised his left arm in an exaggerated way and made a point of looking at his watch. “Please . . . come in,” he said, without reference to the time and without a smile to accompany his welcoming words. With that, he turned and disappeared into his office.

Richard shrugged, gestured his excuses for being late, smiled briefly at the fifty-something woman and followed Rothschild. Inside, Rothschild was waiting by the door and promptly closed it behind Richard. “Please, take a seat,” he said, and pointed to the chair by his desk.

Richard sat down and made himself comfortable. Because of his tardiness he tried to conjure a chastised look. Very unusually, Richard was also dressed for ‘the city’ in a dark, plain suit; but his was a general-sized, government-issue two-piece, and not a Savile Row, made-to-measure three-piece, like Rothschild’s.

“Thought I’d get a hero’s welcome,” Richard said ironically, as Rothschild took his seat on the other side of the desk. “What with
Enigma
’s pod being vaporised just seconds before it was due to open.”

Rothschild looked at Richard in a resigned way. “This is MI9, Richard. We are supposed to be a Secret Service department, not a circus – we don’t do ‘heroes’ here – everyone does their job.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. There was a moment’s silence and then he clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Peter, you are going to have to lighten up you know – or you’ll have a heart attack or something.”

Barely perceptibly, Rothschild nodded. “You left it rather late, don’t you think? That’s my only criticism. Canaveral timed the shuttle exploding exactly at the pod’s deployment altitude – not much room to manoeuvre, so to speak.” A smile flickered but was suppressed and Rothschild nodded again, this time a little more exaggerated. “Anyway, how was your trip?”

“Good thanks, very good in fact. They sent an aircraft carrier, the
Eisenhower
. It’s my very own nuclear-powered supercarrier. It was on its way to the Med . . . Yannick and I got off in Gibraltar – nice to see the old place again.”

Rothschild looked impressed. “Four days at sea – felt like you were back in the Navy, I expect.”

“Certainly did. Perfect for recuperation. Plenty of hot water, good food, good banter, lots of flying stories . . . loved it.”

Rothschild nodded emphatically. “Excellent. Well, you don’t need me to tell you that you did a good job, a very good job . . . the Prime Minister sends his regards.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“You
have
called Rachel, I trust? Am I still the devil reincarnated?”

“It’s not all fire and brimstone, Peter. And yes I did – on the ship’s SATCOM and again when I got off in Gib. She’s fine, looking forward to me getting home – there’s a lot to put right over there.”

“I expect there is, and I’ve awarded you two weeks leave . . .”

“Two weeks! I don’t think so. I’m having a month off minimum, even if I take some of my holiday allocation.”

“You have a squadron to command; let’s not forget your responsibilities.”

Richard thought for a moment. “The Royal Navy pilot I flew with,” he said. “Lieutenant Chris Quarrie . . . He’s applied for a resident’s permit on the Moon – and his partner, too. I’ve already written a report recommending the Lunar Senate accept his application. In view of his actions, it’s likely to be accepted. He’s very competent and has a nice way about him – he will make a Royal Navy Captain, there is no doubt in my mind about that. I’ll talk to Eddie Lieven – Andromeda’s Chief Operations Officer – into letting him stand in for me for a couple of weeks. It will be good experience.”

Rothschild shrugged. “Very well, I don’t have a problem with that – I can clear you for a month,” he replied.

“Thank you, Peter. I’ll do some moon-walking and have a few quiet dinners with Rachel – you understand.” Richard paused and looked questioningly at Rothschild. “Anyway, where is Laura Bellingham . . . ? I’ve never known your office without Laura.”

Rothschild glanced at Richard for a moment and then looked down, as if he was put out. He tapped a finger on his desk in a preoccupied way and then he looked Richard in the eye. “Laura was the mole, Richard,” he said, straight-faced. “She was passing information to local Spheron agents from right under our noses.”

“What!”

Rothschild nodded. “I always thought it was the Americans who were the problem . . . you know that . . . their SERON interface. But all along the leak was right here in this office.”

“How did you find out?”

“Abbey investigated the safe house debacle in Strasbourg. Very few people knew of that house, let alone its address and entry code. Abbey quickly pinned it on Laura, and when confronted she confessed.” Rothschild shook his head. “I blame myself for not seeing the signs. All those fifteen- and sixteen-hour days – she was always very conscientious, of course, but those long hours . . . even at the weekends . . . that should have made me suspicious.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She was giving her heating allowance to her ageing mother. Her own apartment was cold and damp, with no hot water and no cooking facilities. It was going on for some time.”

Richard’s eyes widened – he still didn’t get the picture.

“Oldest trick in the book – goes back to the Cold War,” enlightened Rothschild. “More than a year ago, Laura’s mother needed some expensive hospital treatment. Because of complications and the fact that she had already been treated privately – albeit unsuccessfully – it wasn’t covered by the Independent Health Service mandate. Clearly, the conglomerates had their feelers out. She was approached for some information in exchange for the medical expenses – they wanted unclassified information, easily available on the World Net, actually. Laura didn’t see any harm in it. Then her mother’s treatment became involved, more expensive. Spheron asked for additional information, only this time a little more ‘useful’ shall we say.” Rothschild tapped his fingers on the deck again. “They were clever, took their time . . . nothing too sensitive. Laura obliged. Then, of course, came the sting. Oil supplies were non-existent and they offered to fill her mother’s oil tank up when she left hospital. This time they wanted restricted information. After that she was hooked and it quickly became blackmail; that was a year ago.” Rothschild shook his head.

“Is she being charged?”

“I reported the matter to General Roper and apologised for my persistent challenges to their security model. He understood. A similar thing had happened to his friend – you will recall General Buchanan when you retrieved the first batch of crystals?”

Richard nodded.

“Anyway, in answer to your question, no . . . we have managed to keep a lid on it – she didn’t do it for herself, for God’s sake. And in a roundabout fashion she may well have helped – by us bagging Karl Rhinefeld, you understand.” Rothschild looked disappointed. “The Prime Minister sanctioned my recommendation in view of her service.”

“And . . . ?”

“Laura has gone to the ‘typing pool’; she will never be trusted with confidential information again. We have avoided detention and she remains employed – such a waste of talent.” He shook his head again.

Richard was saddened by the news.

“There is, however, some rather good news,” continued Rothschild, forcing a smile. “Humatrons extracted a forty-eight kilogram consignment of raw crystal from the same seam that the
Hera
’s crew were working – on the surface of Io, you understand. Their space vehicle was bound for the Moon. Had the attack on Andromeda been successful they would have landed there and the conglomerates would have had the best bargaining commodity in history. Instead, their failsafe plan was to hide in the asteroid belt.” Rothschild sat back in his chair. “I must say the Chinese Government has been extremely cooperative here. Their Special Forces moved quickly and decisively against Tongsei, effectively overrunning the Huang Hai Industrial State. They confiscated Tongsei’s entire computer network and found a great deal of very useful information – not least the coordinates where the said vehicle was hiding. The Humatron pilots have been instructed to continue their mission. In a few weeks they will be intercepted when adjacent to Mars. The Space Federation Council has agreed that a five kilogram consignment will be allocated to Osiris. Commander Race will reinstate the Petrified Forests of Elysium.” Rothschild’s expression brightened.

“Yes. Tom copied me in on his report to the Federation. It’s amazing what he found inside Zeta Three – such a civilisation; such a loss. And Zeta One and Two are much bigger.”

Rothschild nodded. “Using the translation programme that you helped devise a few years ago, the Osiris Science Department was able to interpret the records that were found. The results have certainly changed the way the Federation views Mars.”

“So we have come full circle,” said Richard, staring out of the window thoughtfully. “Reached the reason why Admiral Dirkot Urket left Earth in the
Star of Hope
. A resurrected ship . . . forgotten skills; it was to take a crystal to that dying civilisation. What must have been going through the survivors’ minds that day – when they realised that they had no way of contacting the subterranean colony and their precious crystal was shattered.” Richard shook his head. “And the rest, as they say, is history . . . and how sad is that?”

Rothschild agreed. “I have to say that I did not know that the core of Mars is inert. It was in Commander Race’s report. The subterranean colonies here on Earth have the heat from our molten core to support their endeavours. It’s something that I had not considered, but Commander Race wrote that after their crystal burnt out, the Martian colony chilled very quickly.” He paused reflectively. “Anyway, with a new crystal soon to be installed the future is looking bright for the proposed expansion of Osiris.”

“You’re right, Peter, that’s good news. And what have the authorities done about Epsilon Rio and their cyber-technology?”

“Epsilon Rio is also being broken up. Like Spheron and Tongsei, most of their senior management have been arrested. There will be some long sentences I can assure you, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be in a high security prison in China or Brazil these days. And some more good news is that the Lunar Senate has requested high level talks with the Federation Council ASAP. It’s a move to develop closer ties and instigate mutual defence planning – it seems that their extreme isolationist policies may be a thing of the past. You might find that there is a good deal more cooperation between respective flight operation departments and defence directorates.”

Richard nodded his approval. “And what about the main reason for our meeting today, Peter?” Richard said. There was an edge of unease in his tone.

Rothschild stared at Richard for a moment. “Yes, of course,” he said, and looked thoughtful. “Listen. Whatever happened inside the Great Pyramid on the day EMILY was paralysed is not my concern. I don’t want to know what generated that solar flash, if indeed it was generated. To my mind it could have been anything – a meteorite, a reflection from a solar flare, even a piece of Space junk re-entering the atmosphere. God knows there’s enough of it in orbit. You will not find any mention of another crystal in my report, and outside this department nobody is any the wiser.”

Richard breathed a deep sigh. “Thank you, Peter.”

“No need,” replied Rothschild, matter-of-factly.

“And what about the Ark of the Light?”

“It appears to be lost . . . The conglomerates must have disposed of it. Dropped into the South China Sea or something similar, I expect – that’s what’s written in my report. I don’t think we are likely to see that relic again . . . do you?”

Richard smiled faintly. “No,” he said. “Gone forever.” Richard checked his chronometer. “Well, it’s time for my flight. A shuttle to fly me to the Moon – like the song.” Richard’s smile widened. “I’ll be seeing you, Peter – and thanks again.”

Richard stood and offered his hand. The two men shook hands over the table.

“I’ll be in touch,” was Peter Rothschild’s passing comment as Richard left the room.