An Alien Rescue (53 page)

“Hey! I haven’t retired
yet
, you cheeky little clown!” he retorted, grinning at the young seaman’s nerve. He allowed his powerful binoculars to hang loose from his neck. “Yes, this is the Captain speaking, and my name is not
goddammit
. What’s up?”

“Sir, you aint gonna believe
this
, but there’s something moving towards us from our port-side, in our eight-o’clock. It’s coming at us with almost no height and as fast as a missile. It’s on a straight course and should reach us in…
oh my fucking god, ten seconds, nine, eight… Jesus Christ… Brace yourselves, impact is imminent… Mother!”

“Holy-shit-on-my-trousers!” the Skipper shouted in alarm without thinking. He instinctively knew there wasn’t time to give an order to take avoiding action or even to crash-dive, there just didn’t seem to be any time to
do anything at all, so spun around to face the direction quoted.; as did all the Watch who had heard the screaming message and their Skipper’s exclamation. They all faced the port-side, fearing what they might see.

The black triangular ship shot
by them, almost at right-angles but not quite. It went straight past the bow, creating a huge pressure wave as it passed by. The sub rocked like it had never done before, including when it was first launched off the builder’s scaffold. It was no sooner seen than it was gone, disappearing across the dark-grey saw-toothed horizon from view and radar. No one uttered a sound, they couldn’t, each man had to grab hold of the Wing’s railing to prevent themselves being thrown overboard before recovering their sea-legs. It was only after each man had checked with the others to ascertain they were all still there and no-one was injured that the apparition was discussed. No one spoke until the Skipper had.
He
was trying to admit to himself what had been seen. It was as if their ship was almost hit by a missile, or that was the reported UFO from further south. No one said a word to break the eerie silence until the Captain stepped into the group’s centre. Looking straight into the eyes of each member of the Watch, one after the other, unblinking, he said, “We never saw that! Not one of you saw that… thing! It never happened and nothing was seen by anyone! Do you all understand me? Speak now and forever hold your peace with me, the Navy, the President, your god or whatever it is you pray to.”

It took each man a moment to think about what the Skipper had said, all nodding their understanding and agreement… in silence. They found it difficult to comprehend what they
had
seen, so felt that speaking about it seemed absurd anyway.

“Trust me when I say that your naval career and future will not benefit from reporting what you think you
just saw.”

The long faces of his stupefied men met his cold and icy stare, when he suddenly raised his voice, saying with a tone of mirth. “Hey, that was one hell of a party you guys gave me last night. I don’t remember the last time I drank nearly so much liquor. I would swear blind I saw a pink elephant on my way back to my quarters last night.”

They each laughed nervously, knowing what he was doing.

“And thanks for the clubs, guys. I will always remember this voyage… and this goddamned moment and who I shared it with.”

That clinched the deal. Each member of the Watch would remain silent forever and another day besides.

“I’m going below to speak to
Radar
, guys, and we’ll be diving soon, so get your shit together and your sorry asses below. Thanks for your cooperation, men; it will not go unrewarded,
that much I promise you
.”

They all gave a reassuring smile and a nod as if to say he could trust them not to say a word… to anyone.

Scott staggered onto the Control Deck, dropping a few bags of potato chips on the way between the seats. The rustle of the bags hitting the floor wakened both pilots with Phyllis rubbing her eyes and Drang stretching himself while both yawned loudly.

“Look what Scott has brought you, lovely little tit-bits to…”

“Bloody hell!” shouted Phyllis. “Drang! Look at the monitors for Jesus Christ’s sake?”

Bringing his arms together after stretching upwards he allowed his sight to fall on the message that occupied Phyllis’s attention. Focussing his eyes on it, he recognised it as a warning, releasing a sort of high-pitched yelping sound, almost like a puppy-dog whose tail has just been jumped on by the biggest kid in the world.

“It’s the best I could find, you two. So less of the crap and…” Scott stopped yapping like the puppy that Drang had become for an instant, falling into silence when he understood something was dreadfully wrong.

Phyllis looked at Drang as he looked at her. Scott looked at them both.

“What the hell has happened? What’s gone wrong?” Scott asked, looking from one to the other.

“We must have fallen asleep.” They both said
in unison. It was almost uncanny. They didn’t know what else to say or who to say sorry to, when Scott thrust a packet of crisps into each of their laps.

“Thanks,” said Phyllis, looking as if she didn’t
really want them.

Drang also looked as if he had no appetite, turning around to tell Scott what had happened.

“Holy shit in a poke, we almost collided with a ship? You’re kidding me… Aren’t you?”

Drang shook his head solemnly.

Scott considered the situation, thanking his lucky stars they survived.

“Right! As punishment, you must both eat the contents of the bag I’ve given you, and if you’re sick or sneeze, you must eat the bits that come out as well. Savvy?”

The rapturous laughter reached the ears of Frell and Belinda, waking them with a puzzled look. What might be causing such hilarity, they wondered.

Phyllis was scoffing
Smokey Bacon
flavour while Drang was tucking into
Cheese and Onion
. Scott had already eaten his fill so was gulping down another bottle of cola. Frell and Belinda entered to the sound of potato-chip crunching. Their gastric juices made them look to see if there were any more packets as Scott tossed them a few.

They voiced their thanks, to which he replied, after a long and loud belch, “Don’t mention it, babes.”

The term babe was becoming commonplace for Scott, but none enquired to why he had started to use it. But he had, and it was the kisses he had received from the girls, which now made them babes, in his eyes.
Drang
, he thought,
would never make it to babe status
, as he opened another bag of crisps for himself. “Mmm, Horse Flavour,” he said, out loud.

And as he had predicted, they all cried
out, “You have got to be joking!”

The black ship had crossed the Moroccan coast under a shroud of moonless darkness. A young goat herder heard the strangest of sounds as the ship flew above him, believing his God had crossed the land that night, allowing this young man to hear his sacred blessings. He would relate the story to anyone who would listen, telling them all he had heard their holy god. Upon hearing the lad’s strange story, both his family and friends sided with those who made him out to be a blasphemer. He was accused of hearing strange noises because of the heat and dehydration he suffered while tending goats in the desert. His persistence of the holy sounds meant nothing to those who accused him of heresy, never considering the boy might actually have heard something, even if it wasn’t what he thought. The beatings he received forced him to accept what the elders were telling him was true and what he heard was nothing more than his exaggerated and tired imagination.

It hadn’t take long for the ship to cross the North African
landscape, avoiding the largest towns and cities while trying to stay low and invisible. All along its flight-path, additional goat herders were also telling their families the strangest of stories, sounding much like the young lad nearer the coast. They each found themselves at the centre of attention, attracting ridicule and more violent beatings for defiling the name of their god with their abhorrent claims, until they each relented, praying to their prophet for His forgiveness and His blessing. Each child would never mention what they thought they believed they had heard… ever again.

The last main place of habitation to have flown by them was a town called, Quarzazate, a place of charm and desert mystery. It was situated between the city of Marrakech and the High Atlas Mountain range. No one, other than the bruised and bleeding goat herders, had seen or
heard the black ship soaring overhead as it steered its way towards the inhospitable and desolate region that stretched before it. The ship was heading towards a site that was already known for its purposefully hidden landing area, one that had been used in the past. Arriving and landing took but a brief moment, with careful screening for indications of human life in the surrounding area automatically carried out as it arrived and descended. The black triangular ship now stood on barren sandstone rock, enclosed by a steep and almost impossible to reach escarpment. As the ship settled onto its dusty landing pad, the ramp was lowered with all systems shut down. There had been a bonus, which none had reckoned on, and that came in the form of a sand storm that obscured the blackness of the ship to one that matched the colour of the desert and surrounding cliffs. They sheltered until it passed, knowing their time was precious, wishing the storm would end soon. At least they wouldn’t be seen by any aerial activity should any chance to pass by, thought Phyllis, as she surveyed the landing zone.

The sun was beating down mercilessly as the battered old Renault
saloon rumbled across the potholed desert road. Even lizards had taken cover under rocks from the fierce heat of the morning sun. It seemed as if that morning was hotter than any other as Mustapha tried to open every window in the car, succeeding except for one. Its broken winding mechanism had been welded solid to keep the window closed at all times. And just like the window repair, much of the other vehicle’s equipment was also welded as it was the preferred repair agent. It was cheap, easily applied and rarely allowed the fault to rear its ugly head again because it was permanent. However, in this instance, another open window would have been a bonus as Mustapha’s gown was already sticking to his sweaty overweight body. Then he saw what looked like clouds of fog streaking across the car’s filthy windscreen, as if driving through one of the high mountain passes. He rubbed his eyes in confusion. At that point, an even larger cloud swept across the car, leaving a damp residue on the windscreen. It flew up and over as quickly as the car was travelling, gone in an instant. He wiped his eyes again, smearing away beads of sweat with the palm of a hand. That was when another cloud, even larger than the previous, streaked across his bonnet. He centred his vision on the instrument panel, noticing the temperature gauge was as far into the red as it could possibly travel.

“Curse this evil car,” he muttered as he shifted down the gears, stopping quickly before the
engine made the seizing decision for him. The clouds grew in their intensity as the car slowed. As it drew to a final stop the car hissed and spluttered madly, as if there was an angry serpent beneath the bonnet. It sounded large and extremely pissed off. Mustapha eased his overlarge stature out of the car, looking at his watch. He was supposed to be at the Mosque by now, knowing he was going to have to abandon the car and walk to the next town to beg a lift. He didn’t bother to lock the doors as none worked. The car was a rolling wreck so was confident that no sane person would even consider it was worth stealing. The tyres were balder than his brother and the suspension was softer than his wife’s belly. There was hardly any petrol in the tank too, so doubted if that would attract anyone’s attention. However, it had been running and might again, one day. “Praise be to God, God is great” he pleaded to Allah, with hands clasped together. “May you show mercy on my old and aging soul, your poorest of servants.” Without the hoped-for divine intervention, the car continued to hiss and spit, persuading Mustapha he needed to get to the Mosque by an alternative means and gave the car a hard kick with a yellow-slippered foot. He stubbed a toe and instantly regretting kicking the car because he still had a considerable distance to go.

Scott was faced with the problem of getting hold of a
replacement sealing-washer and the tools needed to reconnect the gas cylinder. Following the storm’s passing, he looked up at the untarnished blue of the morning sky, wondering exactly where they were. It was flaming hot and there was no grass, bushes, trees or birds to be seen. The entire place looked like it was part of a desert, especially as the surrounding red rocks displayed cross-bedding that indicated fossilised dunes.

Frell spotted him standing
alone, wearing a troubled look across his tired-out features. She recognised his fatigue, wishing she could care for him forever more. Realising that at sometime in the not so distant future they must once again bid each other another farewell, breaking each other’s heart as they parted for their own respective homes. She dreaded the moment, wishing it would never arrive; she knew it would though.

“Hello, Scott, how are you?”

He turned on his heals at the sound of her voice, pleased to see her and showed it with a smile. “I’m fine, thanks... . No, that isn’t true.”

She looked worried and showed her concern. “Why is it not true?”

He put on a face of conjecture as if he was hurting or angry about something, before releasing the biggest grin ever. “It isn’t true because I’m not
just
fine, I’m feeling great because I’m with you again. You are one heck of a sight for sore eyes, I can promise you.”

Again, the look of concern showed itself on her face. “You have sore eyes? How severe is the pain?” She moved towards him while looking into
them, trying to see where there might be a problem, suspecting it may have been caused by sand irritation.

He smacked his thighs with his hands as he released a laugh. She stopped, standing still, wondering why he all of a sudden began laughing while his eyes hurt.

“My eyes are okay. It’s just a turn of phrase, a figure of speech. I should have said you’re one heck of a sight for eyes that have missed you terribly.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, indicating she was another step forward to learning the ways of human language. “And I have missed you too.”

They closed the gap between them, almost daring to take each other there and then, but discretion prevented them; or was it the sound of approaching footsteps?

“Do you know where we are?” Belinda asked him.

Releasing his tender grip on Frell, he looked around the area again. He suggested they were in a desert environment, but as we have been travelling so quickly, he guessed they could be anywhere.

“We are in Morocco, in the Atlas Mountains, east of Marrakech and Quarzazate. The country of Algeria lies directly eastwards with only a few small towns between us and the border.

“Africa? He said it loudly and with surprise. “Fantastic!”

“Would you like to see more of the country?” he was asked.

“Too bloody right I would! Just give me the chance.”

Belinda nodded to Frell, who in turn looked to Scott. Frell took his hand again, and said, “We must locate the necessary spares to repair the ship, which means visiting places of habitation and communicating with them. Are you happy to do this?”

He thought about the impending prospect. “I can’t speak Arabic, so how will I be able to ask for what we need?”

Frell squeezed his hand in a loving sort of way, giving him a short tug as if to pull him towards her. “They speak French as well as Arabic, not forgetting a few other languages and dialects.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” he quipped. I speak two languages, and fluently.”

Frell looked at him with a puzzled expression. According to the information she had on him, he could only speak English. “What are your two languages?”

He released a muffled chuckle as he said, “English and bad.”

Both women looked at each other, trying to comprehend what kind of language,
bad
, was. Scott released a louder titter, which drew their attention, persuading them to consider,
bad
, once again.

“Oh, I have it!” smirked Belinda, marvelling at his little joke. “Do you not see it?” she sm
iled at Frell, who seemed to give it another rethink. “Bad language,” she said. “Very good Scott.”

“Yes,” he said. “And by all accounts, both Phyllis and Belinda have become aspiring students of it.”

“Really?” asked Frell. “Is this true?” she asked Belinda, who seemed to have taken on the attributes of a chameleon as her face turned a shade of red.

“Erm, well, as Scott says, his choice of words can be addictive when used in their choice of context.” Belinda almost squirmed as she replied.

He stepped forward and gave Belinda a hug. “But Phyllis is my best pupil,” he proudly said.
She
will be passing out of my school with a great pass mark.”

“So it seems,” said Frell, recalling some of the words from Phyllis that left an impression.

“Anyway,” he said. “What’s all this about me heading into some sort of town for spare bits to fix the old jalopy then?”

It took a moment for his words to be deciphered. “Yes, we must visit the town of Ouarzazate. There should be a reasonable ensemble of stores from which to get what you need. If we can get there and back again, without attracting undue attention, we should hopefully be in a situation where we can consider leaving Earth.”

He looked at each of his companions, then himself. “And what are we to wear when we visit this… er, whad’ya call it, town.”

“Ouarzazate, Scott. It is called, Ouarzazate. And we will wear what we have on.”

He looked at the others again, looking further afield at Drang, as he had appeared from the ship to inspect its outer structure. “Well, let me tell you this. If any of us should stroll into any town, Africa or anywhere else… except perhaps Los Angeles, we would stand out like a bunch of weirdo’s. And that is a promise. I can guarantee it.”

The women looked at each other’s suit, realising he was correct. They needed to blend in with the other humans, and walking into town wearing matching outfits of blue with little red hats
would
attract attention. “But what else can we do?” asked Frell.

“You can let me go on my own, that’s what you can do. If I am on my own, I might be taken for a tourist wearing the latest European garb, which would be my excuse should anyone ask me. Or I might say my car or campervan had broken down and I was wearing a pair of overalls, which might actually be the best idea, especially as I will be looking for a mechanical spares and tools.”

“That
is
a good idea, Scott. You are such a clever man.”

It was his turn to squirm. “Hey, don’t make my head any bigger than it already is, for crying out loud.”

That was the final point of confusion. Both women stared at his head, studying its size, wondering why he thought it was already too big, and who was crying loudly? They had already given up trying to decipher things he said, knowing his vocabulary was typically human.

“So, are we agreed then? I go on my own and return with what we need.” Then he dropped his head, saying, “Oh-bloody-no!”

“What is it? What is the matter?”

“What do I use to buy the parts I need?” He showed them his empty hands, palms turned upwards to indicate he didn’t have any money.

Belinda placed a hand on Frell’s arm. “We never thought about that, did we?”

Frell bit her lip before replying, “No, we didn’t.”

“Ah, don’t you babes worry about it. I’ll scrounge what I need, or tell them some sort of porky-pie lie to get my hands on what we need. I’ll manage fine.”

Some words were easily understood, but the rest was way over their heads. So once again, their lost meaning and interpretation was allowed to evaporate.