An Alien Rescue (32 page)

“Jesus-fuckin
’-Christ almighty!” he screamed, as he raised himself. Akay was covered in sand and his hands and face were bleeding, he loudly informed everyone through clenched teeth. “If there’s one thing that pisses me off it’s having fucking idiots in my team. It’s damn-fuckin’ dangerous!”

Belinda and Phyllis stepped back towards Scott for support and protection, half-expecting Mike to lash out
, possibly with bullets. They apologised as they looked over each other’s blue suit, inspecting them for signs of damage while also avoiding his unblinking stare. Mike watched them with wide eyes, but felt his flash of anger subside as they showed such obvious care for each other’s welfare.

Mike apologised as well. “It’s OK, you two. I should’ve been aware that you might have run into the back of me if I suddenly stopped. It’s my own stupid fault. I never briefed you properly. Sorry.”

Belinda was about to reply, as was Phyllis, when they overheard a telepathic message. Scott heard it too, quickly turning around to let them know. But before he could indicate he already knew, Belinda placed a finger across her mouth, telling him to keep quiet. Scott’s inability to completely control his telepathic thoughts had already caused them problems so he had to be told to remain silent. He understood what she was indicating and nodded his understanding.

The commander waited for a reply. His question was blunt to the extreme as he asked the group why they were approaching him.

“Huh, not too bright then?” said Mike after he was told about the question.

“What do you mean?” asked Belinda.

“Heh, heh,” chuckled Mike. “The ratbag that’s trying to communicate has just informed us that we’re approaching him, and also that he is scared shitless about it; enough to try and talk to us. If the individual had any kind of a wildcard up their sleeve he would have remained silent.”

Phyllis looked at Belinda, who in turn looked at Scott. “Ratbag? Shitless? Wildcard?” she asked.

Phyllis cut in with, “What in goddamned hell is all that supposed to mean?”

The two guys turned to look at Phyllis following her unexpected outburst. Belinda joined them.

Phyllis looked at each of them in turn, sensing she’d either said something wrong or horns had appeared from the top of her head.

Both men almost collapsed in laughter following her outburst and Belinda didn’t know what to say.

“What?” asked Phyllis, feeling anxious.

“Holy flaming smoke, Phyllis,” said Scott after wiping the tears of laughter from his face.

“You are definitely my kind of woman,” added Mike between laughs.

“What?” she repeated.

The commander waited, poised to hear a reply, something, anything, from the approaching group. The deliberate silence unnerved him, making him suspect the unseen bodies that marched towards him were malevolent and murderous in every possible way. Grey’s were not known to show many emotions, but the mental hell that played upon this poor soul of an alien’s mind would have weakened the bravest of the brave into a blithering fit of gibbering rubbish. Without a response to his request for backup, and the known loss of his own personnel, this leader was about to break. His increasing indecision of what to do and how to deal with an unknown enemy made him falter in his own clever decisive nature. There was nothing he could do in the Control room, he realised, so left in a hurry. He hoped he might make it to the only ship that stood idle on the ramp, lifting-off and flying to the safe sanctuary of the blue-planet. Indications had shown the group to be between him and his mode of transport, hoping the sensors that relayed the position of the enemy forces were mistaken.

With the hilarity of the moment passed, and tears wiped away with raised spirits, the intrepid quartet almost laughed their way towards what could have been extreme danger. However, Mike was self assured he was on the winning side following the clue-giving message. He’d already been up against a most devious opponent who was well versed in psychological warfare, although it had been some time before. The Vietcong had become champions in the field of jungle guerrilla tactics during the war, using mind-breaking torment to win battles when they were grossly undermanned and outgunned. The Americans had eventually learned from their mistakes, but by that time the war was all but over and done with. Mike, in his time of war, had been trained in the use of mind games to win a battle. If the enemy’s mind could be broken the battle was as good as won, he’d been taught. He knew it was true, he’d seen
and done it many times. Loudspeakers that told the invading
Yanks
that they were murderers of a democracy where the inhabitants didn’t want them was a strategy that had been used in many conflicts. What were their wives, sweethearts and girlfriends doing while they were fighting for a government who didn’t care if they were killed? And so the war of nerves went on night after night and day upon day, for weeks and months at a time. Flares would light the jet-black sky, fired by both sides, silencing the croaks, hisses and growls of unseen animals. Mike remembered the agony of his bro’s, some would scream in mental anguish before a friend punched him into silence and enforced sleep. They were all dead now, gone, taken from their youth by a gook enemy that couldn’t be beaten. The gooks all looked like the little guys who had attacked them in the tunnels, and they themselves had used tunnels to outfox the GI’s, he recollected. The commies were an enemy that would cut the guts from a living soldier, gouge out his eyes with a sharpened stick before feeding his family’s pigs with the remains.
Napalm was too good for those little yellow weevils
, he thought. Those little greys were out to do what was left unfinished by their yellow-skinned bro’s from the war, he considered.
Bringem on
, Mike thought.
Bring those little grey bastards to me and I’ll finish the battle. I’m awaitin’ you, you little slanty-eyed shit-bags! Come and get me, if you fuckin’ can, you gook-faced motherfuckers!

Scott noticed a change in Mike’s behaviour; his actions seemed a bit erratic when compared to recently. The eyes had widened again, looking like those of a stereotypical madman’s.

“Hey, Mike. How’re ya doin?” asked Scott in a jovial fashion trying to sound like a yank.

Mike responded with a loud sigh. And just like Scott, both Phyllis and Belinda were aware of his mood swing
s. His silence was deafening as he stood motionless and quiet.

Scott crept forward, almost like a cat. He didn’t want to startle Mike from his daydream-like state and scare the hell out of him. His approach had to be somewhere in the middle
- if it were humanly possible to find it.

With a hand placed gently on Mike’s right shoulder, Scott said, “I’m not sure, but there might only be one left.”

With a deep inhaled breath, Mike exhaled, “There
is
only the one left, an’ am gonna find the gook fuckwit an’ take ‘im out fur ‘is own goddamned good!”

Scott understood Mike was going through some kind of trauma, having called the Grey a Gook. Inwardly, Scott recognised Mike was still fighting a war, his
own tug-off-war. He was supposed to have died, he realised, but the stupid Greys had taken this poor guy from his prospective grave and placed him in something akin to a zoo. Had they watched him, played with his feelings and anxieties, experimented with his mental condition where he’d been broken and subdued? Scott wondered, recalling his own military training where civilians were broken before being built up again, to think like a military cabbage and jump or shoot without question when ordered to. Unlike Mike, and his so-called Gooks, Scott’s military service was more concerned with the Cold-War and terrorisation posed by the Provisional IRA from Ireland or Moslem fundamentalists. The threats of violence from a Fenian army had mainly taken over from a communist regime skulking behind an Iron Curtain. The Warsaw pact wasn’t the foremost danger anymore. No! It was a band of anti-Brit catholic paddy extremists followed by Moslem extremists.

As a Scot, someone who was born from Scottish parentage in a country that had been attacked and colonised by the invading English hordes many centuries before, he found he could sympathise with a country’s inhabitants that found itself fighting against a much larger and influential government. However, the fact that innocent civilians and military personnel were being murdered and executed on the orders of a few radical militants was beyond any kind of a joke. And like any other serviceman, he would have killed any gun-toting shithead that proved to be a danger to any free democratic population. The bombings in London, Birmingham, and elsewhere in Europe,
then the Twin Towers in New York, were proof that those who were behind the atrocities were not fit to live in any country, regardless of their nationality. He had been taught as a child, within the Christian Brethren faith especially, that those who lived by the sword would surely die by the same sharp device and were only fit to enter the gates of a fiery and bloody hell with a one-way express ticket.
And that’s exactly where those papist murdering sons of bitches and Moslem suicide bombers should end up!

An almost forced silence ensued as Mike and Scott fought
their own internal fight. Belinda and Phyllis stood silent, deep in their own concentration while not even recognising each other’s presence for that briefest of moments. Individually, they knew the men were fighting within themselves, and who could blame them, they each wondered? Here they all were, travelling through narrow tunnels deep beneath the surface of an alien planet. Mike had been abducted from a ridiculous war where he would surely have perished if they Greys had not taken him. And Scott, because of his unique genes, had been selected to produce children whose own lives would be of special benefit to the human colony that both women belonged to. And if the Grey Empire hadn’t intervened, he would have mated once again and still been unaware of all that had been going on … except for the knowledge that Frell had left within his mind. Belinda and Phyllis didn’t communicate, mentally or verbally. They just waited until both men had fought their own personal and mental battles. They hoped each man would win their own finite war, or they may all need to resort to
Plan B.

“Nothing to report sir,” said the Duty Officer as the sub’s Skipper entered the Control Room.

“Shit!” he replied. “We’re stuck here until the powers at bloody be realise there’s nothing happening. And if there was, the party’s well and truly over and we’ve damned well missed it. I’m half-tempted to just head off towards some golden sandy beach in the Bahamas, letting the crew spend some quality time ashore with young native girls. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind some of that myself.” He couldn’t help but smile at the delicious thought of being pampered by young scantily clad and golden brown girls, all plying him with glasses of chilled rum
and gin & tonics while flaunting their good-looks and large cleavages into his wrinkled but happier face. His smile became a quiet laugh. The much younger crewmen that manned the ship’s Control couldn’t help sniggering at their skipper’s almost mutinous comments, each ready to agree with him if asked to, especially the idea of playing with big-breasted
game-on
babes. Like their Captain, they also had a smile worthy of the happiest Cheshire cat ever born. One rating whispered, “Perhaps we should call him, Mister Christian, from now on.” The others sniggered quietly, trying to hide their sniggering faces.

Picking up the comm’s microphone, he said, “Captain to the Entertainment Officer. Please see to it that,
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
is screened in the cinema, immediately following dinner.”

The entire crew
showed a face of disgust at each other, knowing the cheesy movie well enough to be able to write the script.

“Also, do we have a copy of
South Pacific
in our movie library?” he asked.

Following the second question, every member of the crew desperately looked at another for mental support. Thinking it was about to be a very long
voyage, with most inserting a finger towards the back of their throat, jovially pretending they wanted to be sick. The movie currently being advertised for that evening’s performance was,
Apocalypse Now
, which they loved and enjoyed more than any other film, except perhaps,
Dirty Harry
featuring
Clint Eastwood
as
Inspector Callaghan,
the hard cop who hated,
pencil-pushing sons of bitches
; a great catchphrase and loved by all aboard the vessel. They would happily have watched either movie many times without wanting to chuck-up. The Entertainment Officer’s shoulders drooped at the prospect of showing the Captain’s personal choice of viewing, wondering if he could fool everyone into believing he was having a heart attack or a condition equally bad enough to get him transferred into the Medical Centre where they have a separate cinema system, one for each bed. He knew how
he
felt and wondered if the rest of the crew might be considering the same desperate avenue of escape.
Reuters
, he thought,
would have a fantastic scoop if they did
. He imagined the Stop-Press report hitting every front page of every daily throughout the world in big black bold lettering.
An active nuclear submarine, currently on station in the South Atlantic and armed with several atomic warheads, has suffered a strange medical emergency where ninety-nine percent of its crew reported life-threatening heart attacks. The World Health Organisation (WHO) has raised important questions with the United Nations special safety committee concerning the possibility of radioactive side effects and demands an immediate inquiry into the unexplained event. Many of the planet’s environmentally aware groups, such as Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth, have joined forces in an unparalleled and unprecedented union, where they are equally applying pressure for honest and unbiased answers, stating how they fully expect a military cover-up with a Press gagging-order to follow. A Presidential spokesman on behalf of the Pentagon has declared there is no cause for alarm as there is still one member of the crew unaffected. He is reported to be the highest ranking naval officer on board and is operating the entire submarine single-handedly; such is its ease of use and advanced construction with an enviable and unequivocal safety record. The unusual and unprecedented situation is said to be safely under control. The submarine is currently heading for the nearest friendly port in the Bahamas, where emergency first-aid and resuscitation teams are on standby with lots of rum and young ladies to aid the crew’s recovery.
With a growing smirk he couldn’t possibly conceal, even though he tried hard to, he released a loud guffaw laugh. A few heads not so surprisingly turned to look at him and wondering if he might possibly be looking forward to seeing the movies, actually believing he was. “He’s a sick bastard,” said one rating under his breath to his mate.

“Yeah, always wondered about ‘im,” he replied turning around to face his control panel again. “Imagine looking forward to seeing ‘em
sad friggen movies!”

“Yeah… real sick.”

Deep beneath the ocean, watertight and hidden, the Greys waited patiently. All incoming transmissions were analysed, including any audible announcements made on the overhead submarine’s Tannoy. The instructions regarding the films weren’t fully understood, but then most of the orders and commands weren’t either. What they did listen for was anything that might appertain to their own presence and discovery. So far there hadn’t been any sign or sound of information that might be relevant to their position so continued to monitor the submarine’s status and broadcasts while wondering what might be so important about two films.

Scott jumped out of his trance-like condition, feeling as if he’d been sleep-walking for a while. Mike still wrestled within himself with eyes twitching like that of a raving lunatic released
by mistake.

The Grey commander on Mars left the safety of his Control, easing himself through the doorway and around a corner
to head along the tunnel towards the ship that could get him out of there. His footsteps never made a sound as he carefully placed each foot softly on the sterile floor. He knew the murderous group were not too far away and didn’t want to make any kind of a noise that could alert them to his position. There was a long distance to cover so he tried to go as quickly as he could while trying to remain silent.

Mike snapped from his dilemma, jumping like a cat on a red-hot roof. Belinda and Phyllis jumped too, surprised by his unexpected action. Scott just shook his head, believing Mike was more of a danger to the mission than he was as a helping hand. He couldn’t say though.

“Mike?” asked Belinda. “Are you feeling all right? Is there anything you need or perhaps we can help you with?”

Looking downwards with
leaden eyelids, he replied he was fine. Phyllis placed her left hand on one of Mike’s shoulders, indicating she was concerned for him. He in turn placed his own hand upon hers; not saying anything as he felt the stumps and scorched flesh crack beneath the weight of his own. She almost passed out with the pain. The shock of the physical contact was so intense it was picked-up by Belinda, Scott and the fleeing commander. With her head swooning with the agony, Phyllis began to sway. Scott urgently stepped forward, almost knocking into Mike as he did, catching her in his arms. He felt the momentum of her dead weight pulling him over, trying to recover his balance as Mike lunged to the rescue. Scott was amazed how quickly Mike had reacted. He had believed he was still half asleep or in a trance, so was surprised by his ultra-fast speed. Belinda also rushed to her aid, placing both hands beneath her head as the men gently laid her down onto the tunnel’s floor. Her breathing was quick and beads of sweat had appeared on her forehead. They realised how serious her condition was.

Mike was the first to speak. “If this leads to a medical facility, might there be something that could be used to help her?”

Belinda thought for a moment. “Perhaps, and if there is something ahead that can help we must get her there quickly!”

“I absolutely agree,” added Scott, who was checking her pulse and
pallor.

“Right then,” said Mike without hesitation. Lifting her
on his own, he practically tossed her over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. She released a small groan, which receded into silence.

“Hey, Mike. Take it easy for fuck’s sake?” said Scott in alarm as he’d witnessed the way he’d lifted her.

“Hey, Scott,” he replied sarcastically. “Shut the fuck up! She’s unconscious so she don’t know shit!”

Scott was completely taken aback by the abruptness of his actions and his choice of repertoire, so did as he had been told. He recognised Mike had done this before… probably in ‘Nam.

“I know what the hell I’m doin’ so pickup Akay and bring up the rear. Hey... Admiral... don’t even think about fondling her either – she’s all
mine
!”

But before Scott could
even think of a reply Mike was already running with Belinda close on his heels. Scott knew this wasn’t the time to say a word, especially as there was no one left to speak to, so followed Mike’s hasty lead.

The commander was becoming pleased with himself, believing he’d escaped the devious clutches of the evil group who were responsible for destroying his army
of clones. Allowing himself a burst of extra speed as silence was now no longer an issue... or so he mistakenly believed. He was already running the pre-takeoff checks through his mind as his spindly thin legs carried him along like a two legged spider chasing after a tasty insect. The mental checklist had just reached the propulsion tubes purging stage when he popped into full view of the advancing group. His legs buckled as he tried to stop quicker than he possibly should have. His body skidded forwards, almost surfing through the tunnel while trying to stop, looking like a character in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. His footing gave way, making him land with a clatter as it seemed his bony structure contained no padding or protection whatsoever. The smoothness of the floor allowed him to travel a few more metres than he wished to, an involuntary manoeuvre of spinning along the tunnel towards the humans with a look of shock deeply etched across his face. Mike hit the brakes, planting his size twelve feet squarely on the tunnel floor.

Belinda shouted, surprised that she did so, “That must be the leader of this base! We need to catch him!” And before anyone else could react she was on him like a tonne of blue
clothed bricks. The Grey was pinned to the floor by Belinda, forced down by her weight and determined grip. Her quick reactions had knocked the air from her heaving chest, forcing her to try and suck in as much oxygen as possible to make up for the loss. The sound of her inhalations and heaving chest upon his own, the commander mistakenly believed he was about to be eaten. With an ear-piercing shriek like a banshee on the loose he let out a squeal that hurt everyone’s ears. In obvious pain, Mike let out a few oaths as he stepped forward, stomping on the commander’s fingers to shut him up.

“That’ll give ya something to scream about you ugly little mother-fucker!” he said through gritted-teeth. He was more than happy to be giving the thing that squirmed under his foot some well-deserved pain. Unfortunately for Mike’s ears, and that of the others, the squeal
only got louder. The fact the commander had already been in pain and letting the rest of Mars know about it, before the added agony from such a heavy foot caused even more noise, didn’t seem to connect with Mike’s brain. He thought was that by administering even more pain the surprise and shock of it would shut him up. Wrong! The increased levels of pain just made him holler all the more.

Unable to cover his ears due to carrying Phyllis, Mike removed the pressure of his foot from the trapped fingers and just kicked him in the head instead.

“That worked!” he said proudly as the pain in his ears subsided much quicker than a few million aspirin could ever have done. “Fuck you, you noisy piece of shit!” he added in relief, while also wondering if he’d killed the thing that now lay completely motionless, and thankfully silent, at his feet.

“Bloody hell,” said Scott. That was worse than a bunch of cats during
a full moon.

Belinda felt she could add to the topic. “I have not heard anything as loud and as ear piercing as that since hearing a female
Tropian Caraptor
from the
Troxilian
system laughing at a stupid joke about Greys giving birth.

Both men looked at each with open mouths, wondering what on earth a Tropian
Caraptor thing might be, then gulping at the thought of Greys giving birth, imagining thin sharp bones catching and ripping the flesh off any brat that might dare to exit a female. Then Mike went that little bit further and tried to imagine two Greys having a quick shag. That stopped him in his regrettable tracks for a moment as his brain began to seize at the mind-boggling scene!

“What’s so stupid about Greys giving birth?” Scott
eventually managed to ask.

“They do not give birth,” she replied with a grin.
“There are no females.” Once again the men looked at each other.

“
No females? ” said Mike. “I guess it means they're all just a bunch of fag's after all! ” The men smirked at the humour, before returning their attention to the Base Commander.

“Is he still alive?” asked Scott
, without showing any concern in his voice.