An Alien Rescue (37 page)

Mike
had watched him disappear around a curve in the tunnel, waiting a moment longer in case he decided to return. He didn’t. Mike rotated himself to face the oncoming sound, licking his right thumb before using it to clean any dust off the sights. He crouched onto one knee while relaxing as best as he could. “Okay, it’s up to you and me, Babe. We’re in the thick of it again, jist like the good ol' days we used to know. So, whadya say we give some little gooks a message from Uncle Sam?” With no answer forthcoming, Mike added, “We’ve a whole lot of time to make up for, you and I, so let’s give ‘em a taste of hairy hellfire!”

The berthed ship came into view about the time Belinda expected to see it. Phyllis was already on board with her mind, preparing to carry out a series of
pre-flight checks as quickly as possible.
There was the system of how to open the doors to the outside to be conquered yet
, she worried.

Scott had quickly caught up with them, turning into a hangar type area before he had a chance to stop. The girls
sprinted up the gangway into the ship, which prompted him to run after them. The sound of distant small-arms fire invaded the silence, sporadic and determined, nothing out of the ordinary like explosions or screams of agony; with only a few quiet moments between lengthy bursts, occasionally overlapping. He could almost imagine Mike in the centre of a fire-fight, squeezing the trigger at intervals in short controlled-bursts while waiting until he’d seen the white of their eyes, to coin a cliché; or in this instance, the black. He was probably allowing the few he’d shot to fall before releasing another salvo at the next onslaught, just like before. Scott paused, wondering if he should go back, to help if he possibly could. His thoughts of mutiny were ambushed by Belinda’s urgent request for him to join them on the flight deck. There was a problem, she insisted. With a last backwards look, Scott started to enter the ship, meeting Belinda. She had returned to the doorway to collect him, knowing he would never find his way to the Flight Deck on his own.

“What’s the problem?” he asked gasping for breath.

“Phyllis cannot work out the system for opening the outer doors. She wonders if you might be able to help as there are a few controls and protective systems she does not have knowledge or experience of.”

“Just tell me what you’re having trouble with?” He said it quickly, their lives depended on haste.

The not so distant sound of gunfire ceased, and not so far away, possibly from just outside the hangar’s entrance door. Scott hoped Mike would survive the attack, wanting to get the hell back down the tunnel to make sure. Then the memory of Mike took a rear seat in Scott’s mind as he entered the flight deck. It was the strangest place he’d ever seen. There were no dials, joy sticks or switches to be seen. Just a whole lot of flashing lights, spinning colours and the weirdest sound effects heard this side of illegal narcotics, he considered.

“Scott, over here please?” Phyllis beckoned his presence with one hand while holding the other on a semicircular pad.

“You wanted me, Ma’am?” he asked with a slight level of humour in his voice, which was completely lost due to the present circumstances. It was the old military black humour, always kicking in to help alleviate a dangerous or lethal situation. He felt stupid for using it and instantly regretted saying the words.

“We have a problem …”

Scott almost injected the word,
Houston
, choosing to let the moment go by without comment. It wasn’t called for and it would surely have been out of place.

“The ship’s ready for departure but I cannot understand the system for opening the doors.”

Scott didn’t say anything, there wasn’t time, he knew. He eyeballed the controls, viewing the overhead monitors that showed the ship’s status and that of the all-important doors. Recalling his experience and in-depth knowledge of aircraft and their systems he knew there were obvious safeguards before specific functions could come into play. There were conditions to be met, prerequisites to be acquired before a system could be initiated; such as the arming and firing of weapons, undercarriage lowering and raising, engine starting, bomb-doors opening, brake-chute deployment, with lots, lots more to think about. He gave the entire scenario he was looking at a very high and careful level of consideration. “There has to be a SOP.”

“What the hell is a fucking
SOP
?” asked a very human-sounding Phyllis, while feeling she was about to explode in frustration at his use of stupid abbreviations at a time like this.

“A
Standard Operating Procedure
,” he replied while still thinking about the problem in hand.

“Without opening the external doors we cannot leave, Scott,” Phyllis urged him. “They must be opened. What have I overlooked?” she asked while frantically going over everything she had already checked at least twice before. Scott rubbed the bristly stubble on his chin as if that would give him the answer, which it wouldn’t of course, but it allowed a slight distraction of his mind to concentrate on the urgent matter in hand. Then he had a brain wave. It hit him like a hammer striking a nail for the last and final time to make a job complete.

“The hanger’s pressure isn’t in equilibrium with the outside. If we opened the doors we could do some serious damage as the air rushed out.”

Phyllis and Belinda turned to face him in unison.

Belinda beat Phyllis with an unexpected statement. “We cannot vent the area, not yet! Mike is not here.”

“Of course,” said Phyllis while ignoring Belinda’s concern for Mike, as if Scott’s answer was obvious all the time and took precedence. “
How stupid of me not to think of it
!”

“
But we cannot leave Mike behind
!” Belinda cut in, almost shouting to drive the message home to anyone who was listening.

Phyllis and Scott looked to each other for an answer to Belinda’s unrestrained outburst. There was more to this than meets the human eye, they each agreed with widened eyes and a knowing nod.

“Belinda? How much time can we give him before we have to leave?” Scott asked while really looking for a reason to get back into the military affray with the excuse of saving Mike. Before anyone could answer his question, he was gone, already on his way back, removing the revolver from its holster. Having left the Flight Deck with the knowledge there was not much time to spare; he sprinted to the ship’s entrance door as if his life depended on it. He believed it was Mike’s life that actually depended on his return so moved with a hunting animal urgency. Upon his arrival, there was no additional sound of gunfire, nothing at all. The eerie silence made Scott wonder if Mike was about to appear through the hanger’s entrance at any moment. He paused for just a miniscule of time, listening hard for the slightest sound that might give him a clue to what was happening. Not hearing anything, and about to run down the ramp, a number of little grey bodies appeared around the corner of the door. They walked slowly as if fearing to enter, treading carefully and picking their way across the floor towards the ship - almost as if someone had just whispered to them that they were bang in the middle of a minefield and their next step could blow them to oblivion. As they approached the ship, the little figures did not know for certain if the human fugitives were actually on board or not, but onward they went anyway. Scott spied their carried weaponry, several Akay babes and a few handguns. He didn’t hesitate for another instant, he had seen all there was to see and turned on his heels. He ran towards the Flight deck, telepathically alerting the ladies that armed Greys were about to board their ship. Phyllis immediately selected ramp retraction while Belinda hit the hangar purge operation control pad.

The
hanger's small entrance doors slammed shut as a great swirling mist of condensing vapour instantly appeared around the ship and its confines, almost as if there was a ghostly reunion and spiritual party going on with ghoulish-looking clouds sweeping by time and again. As the temperature and pressure began to equalise with the outside, the mist dispersed and vented. The ship’s monitors showed great plumes of the condensation venting into the Martian atmosphere, with moisture from the hangar literally freezing as soon as it left the base, turning the air outside into a brief blizzard. When the wide travelling doors reached their stop limits, several in-series micro switches overrode the safety mechanisms, indicating they were fully open and the ship could finally depart. They had not witnessed the small grey bodies get blown off their feet by the powerful circulating winds, all attempting to crawl back to the smaller doorway from where they had entered. They were almost lost amidst the final cloaks of fog that swirled around the floor as the ship’s three legs lifted and folded into their undercarriage bays.

“What about Mike,” Belinda
asked once again, hoping Scott had something positive to say. He honestly wanted to say something hopeful; but couldn’t. He instead turned to gaze at the floor, avoiding her question as best he could without hurting her. He thought he could recognise love in her demands for information regarding Mike, the bushy-haired and bearded guy who decided to remain behind and fight his
Alamo
. It was a no hope, no win situation, and Scott felt that Mike knew it perfectly well when he ushered the others on towards the waiting ship. His time had been up almost fifty years before, he knew, saved by the strangest chance of fate anyone could ever have; but it was already written that he should have died back in the jungle. Scott felt a surge of pity for the guy left behind, a deserving hero who had saved their arses from being shot to pieces by a bunch of Grey gooks, as he recalled Mike describing them without putting too fine a point on it. He had to smile at the memory of Mike’s turns of phrase, recognising he more than likely would never meet another of his calibre during his lifetime and beyond.

T
hey were at last on their way to Earth as the ship exited through the doors set high in a cliff; too high to see from below and too far down to be detected from above. It was the perfect place to have a secret.

“Here we go again,” Scott said in a whisper.

“But under a different set of circumstances,” added Belinda.

“With Frell’s General on board too. How can we fail?” said Phyllis remembering Scott’s epic story concerning him defeating an Empire ship and Frell’s proud description of him.

Scott smiled, but sadness still invaded his mind. “How long until we’re there?” he asked, quietly.

Phyllis ran the one remaining finger and thumb on her left hand across several flat panels to get a fix on their position and estimated time of arrival. She sensed the smoothness of the surface while missing the fingertip sensation.
It was good to be able to touch things without feeling pain
, she happily thought. She turned and answered Scott. “Long enough.” She answered. “I do not know what we are facing there, so we should rest while we can.”

Belinda recovered her composure, saying, “Yes, we
ought to. There is Frell and Drang to rescue … and Mike to avenge.”

With a sideways glance at each other, Scott and Phyllis were glad they were not members of the Grey Empire on Earth because they were about to feel the effects of Belinda’s inner rage.

A number of Greys had survived the Martian temperatures and low oxygen levels by not being inside the hanger when the small entrance doors slammed shut. They could only watch their only available space travelling ship leave the confines of their base, soaring out and upwards. They did not know the ship’s destination, but felt they could place an accurate guess. The order for communication silence had not been cancelled so were unable to warn the base on Earth of what could be coming towards them. They hoped the security measures in place would stop any progress the fugitives could make, ensuring infiltration would prove impossible. As for the remaining human, the ape-like creature left behind by his escaping friends, they would need to go back and take care of him. Until they had orders to say otherwise he was to be kept alive and secure. Having already discovered the bullet-riddled and out of action clinic, during their search for the fleeing humans, it raised the possibility he may not be saved after all.
Puncture wounds such as these can be fatal if not treated quickly
, one grey clone contemplated as the others agreed.

The ship accelerated, picking up speed as it sharply turned onto its
programmed heading, rapidly fading into partial invisibility as it exited from the upper red-dust coloured stratosphere. The darkness of space was as black as the ship's outer structure, save for the three bright lights that shone in each of the triangular shaped ship’s corners. Scott recalled seeing a ship like this before; once when abducted on the moon and the second when he destroyed it above Earth. And now he was a willing passenger.
Strange times
, he thought silently to himself.

Close Encounters of the Third Kind
had gone down quite badly with the crew, just as the Entertainment Officer predicted.
Dirty Harry
would have been a much better alternative, he reflected. Except for three dog-tired engineering staff and one worn-out cook who had drifted-off during the lead-in credits, the only other individuals left behind in the make-shift cinema to watch the musical,
South Pacific,
was the smiling Skipper and his lemon-faced Executive Officer. The Entertainment Officer wished he had never volunteered for the duty, seriously considering slashing his wrists and squeezing himself into one of the forward torpedo tubes to escape what he considered a fate worse than death. There was only one thing more boring than watching the movie he was about to suffer, he considered, and that was to visit a Pencil Museum. There was one at Keswick, he knew, a small picturesque town in the Lake District, England. It was during a holiday, he recalled, when his wife opted to see old and dusty pencils in a very small out-house looking building that referred to itself as a museum. She chose to do this instead of relaxing on the banks of Lake Windermere in rare afternoon sunshine with a packed hamper of roast chicken, sautéed pork, caviar, champagne, strawberries and cigars. How he wished he was back in the Lake District to fulfil the hamper excursion, but with a lovely busty blue-eyed blonde instead of his dreadfully boring bloody wife.
Mmm, perhaps when I’m next in England on shore leave, I might get to do it. The wife will never know
, he thought, smiling at the plan.

The music started and the dated dialogue rang in his ears. He could almost imagine the crew laughing their sorry pricks off at the saddest audience ever left to watch a film about sailors wearing grass-skirts on a tropical beach. The skipper smiled as he watched it begin, thinking he would dine out on this story for the rest of his life. His name might be the butt of some jokes for
a while, but in the long term his name will be remembered with a sense of humour after he’d left the service, unlike that of many others. And by having his name remembered in this way, he will be welcomed at any naval or military establishment. He could hear them now,
‘Yeah, the genuine one-and-only sub skipper who forced his entire crew to watch two of the worst movies ever made. Yeah, that’s him, and he’s coming here. Yep, he’s seated in the centre of the top table next to the Senator and his wife. It should be a damned good function with lots of laughs. I for one want to hear the real story from the horse’s mouth!’
As the film played to its meagre and mostly sleeping audience, another urgent message arrived from HQ.

Phyllis finished going over the controls, reaffirming the destination and reminding herself how the ship operated. Turning around with a sigh of relief, she advised Belinda the ship was now on automatic and would guide itself and them towards its submerged target. The ship’s memory stored the secret base’s coordinates, with all the necessary adjustments, codes and headings to get there. Belinda had been concerned with how they might achieve a safe entry into such a secret establishment. Scott thought they might have needed to force their way in, somehow. With Phyllis’s report, they rested easily. Belinda, however, regretted having to leave Mike. She now began to understand what love must feel like, with sadness building up within her chest, almost as if her heart was in trouble.

“Before I can rest I must have a look around this ship,” said Scott. “I never did see the whole thing before so this is my chance.”

Phyllis jumped at the idea. “I will come too, if you would like some company, Scott?”

Scott nodded his acceptance, turning to face Belinda. “How about you? Want to come and see how the other Grey half live?”

She smiled a false smile, trying not to betray her true feelings. With a shake of her head she turned to face the controls, saying she would rest while keeping watch over the ship and its systems. Phyllis was about to say there was no need to, when Scott waved to her while placing a solitary finger across his lips indicating she should keep quiet.

“That’s a good idea,” said Scott, to Belinda, indicating with a hand for Phyllis to follow him.

“Yes, it is” added Phyllis, understanding what Scott was telling her in sign language, setting off behind him.

No, it is not a good idea, and I know what you are thinking
, thought Belinda as she plumped herself into a poor excuse for a seat. Without another word, the two explorers set off to see what they could discover.

The song,
Happy Talk
, had just started when the skipper’s attention was rudely broken. His foot-tapping had been picking up the tempo and his mouth was about to enter into a solo Karaoke act when a sheet of paper was thrust into his face with an apology for its urgency. He read it twice with several pairs of eyes following his expression for clues to its content. Folding it into as small an area as possible, he asked his XO to follow him to his cabin. The movie continued with its plonkety-plonk music to a fast returning-to-sleep audience. These poor dreaming souls were going to be the butt of more than just a
few
jokes for a very long time.

The
Admiral chose a file from his safe, carefully removing a letter from its sealed envelope. Unfolding the parchment textured message, he read it. Taking only a moment to understand its contents, he passed it across to his XO to read as well.

“Son of a gun! We’re to return to port soonest. Ya
-flipping-hoo,” the Skipper added with obvious pleasure.

“Couldn’t have put it any better myself,” added the
XO.

“See to the new course arrangements, with our getting underway immediately while plotting for a night’s stopover in the
Azores
. As you are aware, there appears to be a large diplomatic purse for us to collect on our way home. I hope it isn’t a body,
alive or dead
. There’s been far too many of those in the past for my liking. Oh, and be so kind as to inform the crew, if you please? That’ll be all.”

“Ah sure as hell will, sir. If you will excuse me, a’ll do it right away.”

“Please do … and thanks.”

What the skipper did not know, was the diplomatic purse consisted of a set of golf clubs, made exclusively for him by, Swilken, of St Andrews, Scotland. The town has the oldest university in the country and is the ancient home of golf. It’s where the Old Course attracts golfing fanatics and enthusiasts from all the countries of the world. And by sheer coincidence, the town was where Scott was born and only a few miles from where he lives.

The stopover in the Azores had been approved by Submarine HQ, with a request for the crew to celebrate their sub commander’s retirement from the navy. If the celebration was to take place at their home port, it was more than likely that many of his staff would have already left ship and be well on their way to a spot of leave with their loved ones and families. By diverting to the mid-Atlantic island group, the party would include all the crew. The
official
celebration would take place back at HQ, under the auspices of high ranking officers, who would no doubt be envious of his fantastic set of clubs.

With a more than welcome hailing broadcast, the order was given to turn onto a northerly heading with a,
full ahead if you please
? The deafening roar heard by all onboard wasn’t from the engines; it was from its happy to be going home crew.

The submarine’s change in status had not gone unobserved by those who skulked beneath them. There had been a couple of situations just like this, but with other navy ships. It seemed that certain countries did not want to share the information regarding possible sightings and subsequent in-depth investigations of them. It was always a case of individual governments keeping themselves to themselves and not letting the others know what they’re up to.

While the submarine was starting towards its Azores Islands Naval Base, the Greys were preparing to re-energise their systems. It had been a long time since they had had any contact with their other base on Mars so were anxious to get in touch again. They expected the group on the Red planet were wondering what had been happening on Earth during communication silence.

Scott walked along a series of interconnecting corridors, always stopping to listen for anything unusual. A steady hum from the energy power plant could be heard throughout the ship, with a slight sensation of weightlessness felt while walking. It felt a little bit of an in-between Earth and Moon gravity, to Scott. He had thought about mentioning it to Phyllis who followed him silently, deciding not to speak in case it disturbed the peace allowing anyone to overhear them. If Phyllis wished to converse with him, then fine,
she was more than welcome to
, he thought.

Belinda adjusted the communication settings, listening for anything that might be sent from Mars to Earth
, warning of their murdering escapades, ship-stealing tactics and take-off heading. There had been no transmissions, only silence across the entire band of frequencies, excluding those from humans. The radio and television shows were in full swing, with everything from music to news, movies to dramas, killing and mutilation to kissing; some real and the rest fiction. She wondered what the fascination was to watch a killing taking place on a television screen.

A door was heard to open then close, with
an momentary humming sound heard from the door's operation. Scott signalled for Phyllis to move closer, informing her it sounded as if someone had operated an access door into the engine room or generating plant. Phyllis would have smiled at his choice of words to describe an area that was not like what he was accustomed to on his home planet or occupation. She would have told him it was all so different with these ships, but chose to save it until later. Together, and close enough to have been hand in hand, they slowly crept towards where they thought they had heard the door, if it was a door. Quietly, without uttering a sound, eyes wide open and not daring to blink, with their mouths open to help them hear better, they turned a corner in time to see a door opening. They froze, not daring to move. The door had opened fully, remained in that state for the briefest of moments before closing again. Scott was seen to visibly shake his head as if he had been seeing things. Why should a door automatically open and close by itself. There had to be a good reason, he calculated. Moving forwards one step at a time, with an interval of several seconds between each, he finally reached the suspect door. It was firmly closed with no sign of a handle or lock to be seen. He was about to apply some shoulder weight to it, when it began to open again. Its suddenness caught him off guard, so much so that by the time it was open wide he was standing in the doorway looking startled. If there had been anyone in there Scott would have been seen and probably caught. But as it had turned out, there wasn’t. He waited for the door to close, as it had done a short time before, but in this instance remained open and would be for as long as he remained by it. Equating what he had just witnessed while comparing it with what he’d seen as he approached the door, he stepped backwards to the opposite wall of the corridor. A couple of seconds later, the door slid shut, as hoped for.

“Hah! It’s only an automatic door, just like back home in the supermarkets,” said Scott pleased with himself for working it out.

“Phyllis had observed his actions as well as those of the door. “I do not think it is a supermarket though.”

Scott shook his head again and laughed. “I think you’re right. Pity though, I could murder a chicken
-tikka sandwich and a cold beer.”

Phyllis stood still.
What was it about murdering something or someone that preoccupied the human race on Earth
, she thought to herself.

Scott moved forward again to the sight of the door opening. “See
! I told you! Maybe there’s a shelf stacked full of sandwiches inside,” he joked.

“And a box full of beers too,” she replied in
good humour.

Scott spun around at hearing her joke, saying, “I like you, Phyllis. You’re a good egg.”

She did not reply simply because she did not know what to say to that. Was it a compliment, she wondered? Scott saw her look and decided to leave her to it. The door was open and open it stayed. With a small step inside, he stood in the doorframe, able to see much further into the room and around its walls. What he saw answered his question about why the door was opening and closing on its own. There was a cylinder lying on the floor, just inside the doorway. It looked like the type used for storing gas, where there was a single hose coming from what appeared to be a rotary valve at one end. The ship’s momentum and low gravity had allowed the bottle to rotate and roll in a semi circle, where it would be in the door’s sensory area one moment, then back out of it the next. The door was simply doing what it was designed and built to do. There wasn’t anyone else on board after all. They were the only occupants and that was fine by Scott. Phyllis was heard to exhale deeply when she also saw the bottle and its movements.

“So what is a chicken
-tikka sandwich?” Phyllis asked curiously.

“Mmm, it’s a sandwich with chicken in the most delicious Indian curry sauce ever.” He licked his lips at the mere thought of holding a slice in his hands. The idea of eating one had also kicked in his feed-forward mechanism, where gastric juices started to pour into his belly in the
false idea of being fed a very tasty morsel. His belly groaned loudly and his hunger pangs started. “Bugger it,” he said. “I’m hungry now.”