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Shipwrecked
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“I trust he got on board safely?” asked the man, as the car slowed to a halt in the dark alley; an aircraft passed overhead with a roar. The thickset man who had approached Alex in the coffee bar looked up from his thoughts.
“I watched him get on the plane myself, Mr. Speers,” he muttered.
“And did he protest at all?” inquired Speers, straightening his tie with a languid smile upon his face.
“He didn’t have much choice did he?” drawled the squat figure, scratching his bald head. He shuffled uncomfortably in the back seat. “I can’t get used to these damn British toy cars,” he grunted, avoiding the other man’s eye.
“Well, once we have that office clerk, Dragor Millovich, there will be no reason for you to remain here will there?” Speers lit a cigar. The glow of the flame revealed a gaunt face in its mid-sixties. The bald man swallowed nervously.
“He won’t be a problem,” he said, staring straight ahead of him, his hands resting lightly on his knees.
“You don’t seem altogether satisfied with events, do you, Gutteridge?” said Speers, blowing a haze of smoke across the car. He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder, waving him on. The car slowly pulled out of the shadows of the alley, and into the bright sunlight of the busy airport car park.
“I could have just taken him outside, sir,” said Gutteridge matter-of-factly. “Nothing elaborate, he’d be taken care of by now.”
“Elaborate,” echoed the man in a whisper. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and smiled lazily. His teeth glinted white in the sunlight.
He had the grin of a lizard, thought Gutteridge to himself.
“They haven’t told you what happened to your predecessor then?” asked the man with a smile. “He thought much the same as you — until it was too late. No, I told you, he’s unpredictable; more dangerous than you’re allowed to realise. We couldn’t afford a scene.”
“And this won’t cause a scene?” blurted out Gutteridge incredulously.
“We needed to be sure,” hissed Speers angrily. “There was no other way; he would have known. We had to do something he could never believe would happen. Besides, there are other reasons — a little bit of security...” He stared intently at Gutteridge. “Anyway, it’s none of your concern now; you’ve done your job well — a great service to your country. We’ve been after them for a lot of years. Now this is the end of it.”
“Yes, sir,” sighed Gutteridge. He looked out of the window as the car sped through town towards his next target.
* * *
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“Davisson, come in. Can you hear me? Saul are you there?”
Davisson drifted into consciousness to the sound of a concerned whisper in his earpiece.
“Nicks? Is that you?” he croaked through parched lips. He brushed the dust from his visor. He was lying prone in the middle of the howling storm, half-buried by the sand.
“Oh, good lord, am I glad to hear you.” It was Starling’s voice. “O’Keefe’s safe too; we were getting worried about you though.”
“I’m fine — I think,” said Davisson, grimacing as he sat up. Every muscle in his body burned. “Where are you all?” he asked, looking around. He could see no visible landmarks through the dust clouds, only the pale sun occasionally breaking through.
“Me and O’Keefe are together,” said Nicks over the commlink. “We’re hiding out from that thing in some caves near the camp. Starling’s making his way to you — how’re you doing, Gary?”
“Er, okay I think; the direction-finding seems a little flaky in the storm; there’s loads of interference, but I think I should be near you by now,” he gasped. It was hard going, trudging through the gale, encumbered by his heavy suit.
“How long have I been out?” asked Davisson.
“About two hours,” answered Nicks. “We hid from the, er, thing for a good while.” His voice shook as he spoke. “But we heard it flying off about an hour ago.”
“Okay,” said Davisson slowly, taking stock. “Well, first of all we need to meet up. Then we need to get back to base camp.” He shuddered as he spoke. “How many beacons have we missed?” he asked.
There was an awkward silence.
“Well, how many?” he asked again.
“None,” replied Nicks in a worried tone. “I don’t understand it; there’s been nothing at all.”
“Damn, that’s odd. Anyway, we need to get back to base camp before we can do anything else. If I know Grace, the next beacon will come through on a five minute countdown again, so we’d better be ready to go.” He tried to work out why they hadn’t heard from Control. Something must have gone badly wrong.
“What if that thing comes back?” whispered Nicks. “And shouldn’t they have sent a rescue team by now?”
“We’ll find out at some point I’m sure,” answered Davisson with mock levity. “But anyway, I’ve stayed here long enough for one day thank you.
“Now, Gary, do you want me to stay put, or shall I try and meet you? My tracker seems all screwed up in the storm; I can’t pick any of you up at all.” He fiddled with the controls on the panel clipped to his forearm.
“I know, everything electrical seems to be failing,” gasped Starling. “It must be something corrosive in the atmosphere. Just start walking, and I’ll tell you if it’s the wrong way,”
After about ten minutes, Davisson saw the dark shape of Starling’s suit loom out of the billowing dust clouds.
“Good to see you,” grinned Starling. “Bugger, now do I have to walk all the way back with you?”
“The exercise will do you good,” joked Davisson, breathing hard.
It took a further two hours of hard trudging over the barren red rock, often going off course without realising it, as Starling’s tracking systems started to fail. Eventually, they found the fissure in a low cliff face where Nicks and O’Keefe had holed up.
“Welcome to Chez Nightmare,” muttered Nicks, as Davisson and Starling squeezed into the cave and out of the scream of the storm. “I would offer you a glass of wine, but it’s the butler’s day off,” he sniggered, as they slumped down into a heap.
The cave was low, and went back about ten feet, sloping downwards. They all huddled together.
“Well, this is cosy,” said Starling.
“Did you dump the sample claws?” asked Davisson of Nicks.
“Damn right,” he replied. “Else I’d never have kept up with my friend here.” He nodded towards O’Keefe, who sat crouched in the far corner. “He sure can move when he’s shitting his pants,” he laughed bitterly.
O’Keefe didn’t respond; Davisson thought he looked pretty strung out.
“Dan, are you alright? Dan!” Davisson shook O’Keefe’s arm, and he jumped, staring around in panic.
“It’s alright, Dan. We’re going to get through this,” Davisson heard himself saying.
O’Keefe looked away.
“We’re all dead already,” he whispered to himself.
“So, do we just sit tight and wait for the rescue team?” asked Starling.
“That all depends on how long you can hold your breath,” joked Nicks humourlessly.
Davisson fumbled around for the gauge on his air tanks. He tapped the dial to make sure he was reading it correctly.
“Surely this can’t be right?” he whispered.
“Who said that all this exercise was good for you?” muttered Nicks.
The gauge read just under an hour before his air supply ran out.