Kaiju: Deadfall, page 20
“I’ll contact Wenchang launch facility in China. If you’re right, maybe we can jam the signal. If the nuclear device works on Nusku, we might have the means to stop them here.”
“It’s too risky. The Chinese haven’t been very cooperative lately. Besides, you and I both know I’m too old to fly again. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days behind a desk. If there’s even a small chance of success, I think it’s worth it.”
He had no way to stop Langston, and Langston knew it. The commander was asking for his blessing, not his permission.
“I say again, Commander. I recommend that you await Pegasus for transfer and return to Earth.”
“Negative, Director.”
Caruthers’ gaze slowly scanned everyone in the room. By their expressions, they knew he was wasting his time. So did he. If he were in Langston’s place, he would do the same thing. A person could accept just so much before the need to strike out outweighed common sense. He sighed into the microphone.
“I can’t stop you, Commander. We’ll take good care of your crew.” He paused. What more could he say. “Good luck, Commander. Houston out.”
He handed the microphone back to CAPCOM and returned to his desk to wait, feeling much too old for his years.
* * * *
As soon as Langston switched off the radio, Mahall said, “God wouldn’t let us die like this. We’ll be rescued. I know it.”
“God didn’t do so good a job on the Christians down there,” Crenshaw shot her, jabbing her finger out the porthole toward Earth. “What makes you think you’re any better than them?” She laughed. “Maybe God is willing to kill you to take me out.”
“You don’t believe in God,” Mahall snapped at her.
“I didn’t believe in aliens either until a couple of days ago. Maybe I’ll find God yet, but I don’t think he’ll give a rat’s ass if I die up here or down there.”
Ingersall cleared his throat. He had remained out of the fray that had erupted when Langston had presented his proposal. His quiet reserve had seemed out of character and worried Langston. This was the doctor’s first trip. He was young and impressionable. He hoped Ingersall hadn’t given up hope.
“It seems to me that our choices are limited. Numbers might mislead, but they don’t lie. In about an hour, we’ll crash on the moon. Even if by some miracle we don’t crash, in another two or three hours at best we’ll be out of oxygen. Help might come or it might not. I want to live, but I don’t want to live badly enough to ignore the facts.” He glanced at Langston. “You could have ordered us to take the lander and wait for rescue, and then crash the Orion, but you wanted our vote.” He paused. “We voted.”
Langston nodded. “So you did, and I’m proud of you all. You’re a fine crew. It’s been my honor to serve with you. I’m leaving you enough oxygen for two hours if you remain in your suits. If a rescue hasn’t taken place by then, it’s not likely to. I’m taking what’s in my suit and enough LOX to cause an explosion.”
He looked at each of them, gauging their reaction to his decision. Ingersall smiled. Mahall had tears in her eyes, but she didn’t argue. Crenshaw stared at him as if he had kicked her in the gut. She wanted to accompany him, but an extra person wouldn’t improve his chances.
“The Armstrong has enough fuel left to reach a stable orbit. We’ll be in position to impact the crater in forty-five minutes. We’ll separate the two vehicles then. There’s time for each of you to make personal calls if you want.” He smiled at them. “Is anyone hungry?”
As they had before their disastrous encounter with Girra, they had one last meal together. Crenshaw tried to make it as festive as possible with cake and wine she had sneaked aboard, or at least thought she had. Langston had personally inspected and weighed every kilo of baggage loaded. He had allowed the wine for a celebration. Now, it would serve a different purpose. His meal – roast beef, potatoes, and gravy – passed through his lips but left no impression on his taste buds. His thoughts dwelt on his impending death. Looking back on his life, he felt a twinge of guilt at what he had missed, but was proud of what he had accomplished.
His wife had left him early on during his astronaut training. The dedication and long hours had been too much for her to endure. He didn’t blame her. It had been a conscious decision on his part, selfish and motivated by his desire to become an astronaut. That goal superseded his marriage. He had no children to mourn him, and his close friends were involved with the program. They would understand.
One personal goal, setting foot on the moon, had been unexpectedly met. It had taken an alien invasion to do it, but he was satisfied with his lot in life. Sacrificing his life for his country was no more than one might expect of anyone in the military. So many had died already. His life meant nothing in such an overwhelming context.
As they were clearing up the dishes, sipping wine through straws from pouches, Crenshaw began singing a song. Her Australian city accent slipped into Outback Stine, making some of the words difficult to recognize, but the melody was soothing and the few lyrics he did recognize spoke to Langston of quiet nights with soft moonlight, lovers, and hope for the future. It was a fitting song. In the silence that followed, no one stirred for several minutes for fear of breaking the magical spell she had woven.
Closing the hatch on the Armstrong was the most difficult thing he had ever done. As he sealed it, he peered through the glass and into the subdued faces of Mahall, Ingersall, and Crenshaw. Part of him wanted to remain with them. They were his crew, and he was responsible for them. However, leaving them improved their chances for survival, and he had a task to perform.
The Orion craft shuddered once as the Armstrong broke free and drifted away. When it reached a thousand meters distance, Crenshaw fired the engine to boost it into a stable orbit. With a wistful feeling, he watched it grow smaller. The tiny craft had carried him to the moon and back. Pegasus would be in radio range within fifteen minutes. Allowing thirty minutes to match orbits and for docking, his crew would soon be safely on their way home, and the Armstrong would be space junk orbiting the moon. Crenshaw had all the photographs and telemetry of the alien teardrop aboard. He hoped some of it might prove useful.
The Orion had no more fuel for the main engine. He could maneuver only with the Vernier thrusters. Once he broke orbit, gravity would do most of the work. He had carefully worked out the precise position to drop from orbit and the trajectory he needed to follow, but it would be seat of the pants flying, the kind at which he excelled as a Navy pilot.
“Pegasus to Lunar One.”
Langston grabbed the radio. “Lunar One here. Is that you, Gilbert?”
Gilbert Hastings, pilot of the Pegasus answered, “Copy that Commander. We have Lunar One and Armstrong on our radar. No visual yet. ETA sixteen minutes with Lunar One.”
A sense of relief swept over Langston. “Copy, Pegasus. Negative for Lunar One rendezvous. Make rendezvous with Armstrong. I’m sitting out this dance. I have a prior engagement.”
He understood Hastings’ confusion when Hastings said, “I don’t understand, Lunar One. Repeat.”
“Rendezvous with Armstrong. I’m taking Lunar One out for a spin.”
Crenshaw’s voice from the Armstrong broke in. “I’ll explain, Pegasus. We have you on our radar. I’ll flash our outside lights.”
After a moment of silence, Pegasus answered, “Copy that, Armstrong.”
There was no need for further conversation. Armstrong was aware that rescue was minutes away. He had already said his goodbyes to them. His part in the Lunar One mission was over. He redubbed Lunar One, the Avenger. His new mission was military, not exploration.
He watched the shipboard clock, counting down the minutes, and then the seconds until he would fire his thrusters, sending him in his slow death dive. He had time to contemplate his life, but chose not to do so. He had regrets and he had successes. Each life was a measure of both. His life was no more or no less precious than another’s was. Sometimes life called for sacrifice. This was one of those times.
When the clock hit zero, he pressed the button but felt nothing. He fought the thought that the rockets had failed, taking heart as the altimeter began to drop. He was falling toward the moon like a rocket from hell. There was no atmosphere to heat the vehicle, no buffeting to shake it to pieces. The Avenger fell smoothly and silently. Ahead of him, the wide expanse of the Mare Moscoviense glowed softly in the harsh sunlight. He imagined that he could see the ebony teardrop of the alien ship in the crater like the dark pupil of an alien eye glaring at him.
He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or the teardrop feeding them into his brain in an attempt to stop him, but chaotic images bombarded his mind as he fell. He glimpsed one of the alien monsters, a black behemoth stalking the landscape. He sensed a mind compelling it onward. Behind the mind lay nothingness – no joy, no beauty, no marvel. It was a mind devoid of any of the attributes so innate to humans, a mind devoted to chaos and destruction. The image strengthened his resolve. He knew the creatures were being directed by an alien presence through the teardrop.
The mare was large enough to cover the entire horizon now. The moonscape swept by at a dizzying speed. The long, dark length of the rille with the rim of the crater beside it loomed larger. He willed the Avenger toward the rim above the teardrop, feeling like Slim Pickens as Major ‘King’ Kong riding the nuclear warhead in Dr. Strangelove. He resisted the impulse to yell, “Yahoo!”
He checked his watch – 3:45 p.m. (CDT).
He knew he should not have been aware of the crash, but some part of him had melded with the presence within the teardrop. Through alien eyes, he saw the Orion looming larger as it neared the crater. He saw the blast when the ship crashed into the rim of the crater, watched the tower of rock collapsed and slide in slow motion to cover the teardrop with tons of regolith. Instantly, he no longer sensed the creatures on the Earth’s surface, only the rage of the alien mind. That part of him that remained smiled at their confusion. He sensed that they had never known defeat or even resistance in their long lifetimes. The loss of control of the creatures was a new and frightening thing for them.
The alien mind withdrew, and he was alone in the void.
Nusku
23
Saturday, August 11, 12:05 p.m. (PDT) Inside Nusku, outside Las Vegas, Nevada –
Gate felt like a morsel of food passing through Nusku’s gut, crawling and sliding through the slippery tunnel that led God knows where. Several times, he jackknifed his body to maneuver around particularly sharp turns. His arms were lead weights, and his legs throbbed from heel to hip. Every muscle in his body protested his acts of contortion, and it seemed as if the passageway was growing smaller the deeper they progressed. If they reached a dead end, he wasn’t looking forward to the task of backing out.
Behind him, an equally disheartened Costas kept up a running litany of complaints. “I’m too big for this shit.” “I’m stuck.” “I can’t see behind me.” “Are we there yet?”
Gate sympathized with the big sergeant. Both he and Walker were tall and slim, whereas Costas had to force his way through the tight confines. Even so, Gate was ready to call a halt. They had crawled for thirty minutes and he was exhausted. Worse, he was thoroughly soaked with whatever foul smelling liquid the passage walls secreted. Some had gotten into his mouth, almost gagging him. He was just glad it wasn’t acid, but even that might be better than whatever fate awaited them at the other end.
“Hold on,” Walker called.
Gate shined his light on Walker’s legs and saw that he was standing with his upper body thrust into another opening above them.
“This looks promising,” he said, and then disappeared up the new tunnel.
Gate followed, pleased that the new tunnel was less confining. It was also drier and cooler. The passageway sloped upward at a steep but manageable angle. He emerged behind Walker into an illuminated circular space that reminded him of a carousel. Behind transparent crystal walls, rows of glowing red and green spheres floated a few inches above the surface of their ebony crystal hemispherical bases. The orbs rotated rapidly, scattering a dizzying, scintillating pattern of light around the room.
“This isn’t biological,” he said. As he watched, some of the spheres moved up and down. He guessed at their purpose. “They’re gyroscopes.”
Walker looked at him with disbelief.
“Feel the room jostle as the creature moves? The spheres are responding to that movement, keeping the creature upright and oriented.”
“But it looks mechanical.”
“I think it is, at least in part. If, as I believe, the creature is a mechanical construct filled with biological organs, each designed for a specific function. The creature probably has no real brain, just a neural network located throughout its body. The gyroscope orients it.”
“Then we can destroy the gyroscope,” Walker said.
“I believe we can. At the very least it will render it directionless.”
“If we only had the nuke,” Costas said, as he joined them.
“We’ll have to make do, Sergeant,” Walker said. He reached out and pressed his hand against the clear crystal. He quickly withdrew it. “It’s cold.”
Gate nodded. “I noticed that. The aliens probably use some super-cooled liquid to cool whatever magnetic forces are at work. If we could find the source and stop it.”
“We could heat the creature up,” Walker finished.
Gate smiled. “Exactly.”
Costas tapped the transparent panel with the butt of his rifle. “If it’s as hard as the black stuff, we’re out of luck.”
“We’re deep inside the creature,” Gate countered. “I think its only purpose would be to serve as an insulator.”
Walker slid the bolt back on his M16. “There’s only one way to find out. Stand back.”
His weapon clicked on an empty chamber. He tossed it to the ground. “I’m out of ammo.”
Gate handed him his M16. It was the only thing that had had made it through the tunnel with him. His pack and helmet were gone. “Here, you’re a better shot than I am.”
Walker fired a burst into the transparent wall. It shattered like glass. Frigid air poured from the opening, forming a dense fog on the floor as it heated. The cold air climbed up Gate’s leg, making him shiver, but it didn’t immediately freeze his skin.
“It must be compressed carbon dioxide gas. Liquid nitrogen would be at minus 346 degrees Fahrenheit and liquid oxygen at minus 297 degrees. Both would freeze our skin immediately.”
“Thanks for the heads up, Doc,” Costas said.
“Carbon dioxide is about minus 108 – freezing but it warms quickly.”
Walker didn’t seem concerned what gas it was. He stepped through the opening he had made. As Gate followed him, the hairs on his arms and head stood on end.
“Static electricity,” he noted aloud. “The spinning orbs in a magnetic field create an electrical charge.”
“How do we interfere with them?”
“The coolant draining off should heat them up quickly,” Gate replied.
He held his hand experimentally over one of the orbs. He could almost feel the energy field the spinning orb created. He tried to shove one of the orbs off its base, but his hands refused to make contact with it. They moved aside as if pushed away by an unseen hand.
“It has some kind of force field protecting it. The spheres may be constructed from the same material as the crystal.”
He searched the room for some sort of radio, anything that might receive a signal from the aliens and direct the creature’s movements but found nothing. For all he knew, the entire crystalline structure of Nusku could act as a gigantic receiver. After a few minutes, he noticed that the room was growing colder. So did Walker.
“The system is pumping more liquid carbon dioxide into the walls. The creature must be stripping it from our atmosphere. It’s weeping from the walls. It’s repairing itself,” he said with disgust.
“Damn,” Walker cursed. “We’re getting nowhere.”
“Shoot out all the glass,” Gate suggested. “Maybe we can outpace its ability to produce coolant.”
Walker and Costas fired at the transparent crystal. The walls shattered and the room grew warmer. Within seconds, Costas began choking.
“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.
“It’s the carbon dioxide buildup,” Gate realized aloud. “We can’t stay here.”
Walker removed his knife and plunged it into the wall behind the row of orbs. The blade sank into the flesh up to the hilt. He began hacking until he had enlarged an opening wide enough for him to step into. He continued carving away at the alien flesh, ignoring the fluids that seeped from the wound. Gate glanced at Costas, who shrugged and plunged into the cavity after Walker, joining him at slicing a passageway out of the spherical room with his knife.
The air became hard to breath. Gate became dizzy and disoriented, stumbling along behind Costas. The only sounds he heard was his labored breathing. He reached out his arm to locate Costas, and stepped into nothingness. He had the unnerving sensation of falling just before he blacked out.
* * * *
He awoke with Walker gently slapping his face and shining his flashlight in his eyes, blinding him. “Are you okay?” Walker kept repeating, punctuating each question with a slap. Gate raised his hand to ward off another blow.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“I think it’s the power source,” Walker replied.
Gate looked past Walker’s shoulder. What he had thought to be Walker’s flashlight were flashes of lightning high above them arcing between clusters of crystals protruding from the roof in an irregular pattern and a crystalline rod running the length of the chamber. The crystals glowed faintly, pulsing rhythmically. He sat up groaning from his aches.
“How long was I out?”
“Oh, two or three minutes. I cut through the wall of this chamber, and we slid down the side for about twenty feet. No bones broken?”
