Project U.L.F. (28 page)

As they examined it, the creature gasped for air making a strange squeaking noise. It seemed an unbecoming sound for something so large. The animal was wriggling, slowly sliding its way back down the mud. The tiny limbs all worked together to push it backwards and back into the safety of the water. When all that remained visible was its head, it swung itself around and struggled back into the lake, marking its departure by slapping its monstrous tail against the surface and showering the four men with the dirty water.

Wyatt collapsed in a heap.

CHAPTER

11

The young co-pilot reached behind him and pulled the two straps over his shoulders, clipping them into the buckle at his waist. He had started to feel the turbulence.

He looked across to his colleague and saw only himself reflected in miniature in the other’s visor. “Suggest you do the same, sir,” he said. “We’re entering the upper atmosphere.”

The pilot nodded his comprehension. “You have control,” he stated, and released the joystick that jutted up from the console between his legs.

The pilot turned to locate the harness and caught sight of one of the two more comfortable-looking seats located directly behind him and his younger counterpart. Soft, and clad in white leather;
it was a much better deal being a passenger than a pilot,
he thought. When he was strapped in he took control of the tiny craft once more.

He was piloting a skimmer. A small four-seat exploratory craft dropped from the belly of a larger ship which remained in a stationary orbit ten miles above the planet’s surface. He loved piloting these smaller ships. Even when fully loaded they were agile, maneuverable and responded to your every touch. At times he could even believe that the tiny craft was alive.

But they would not be flying to capacity today. They were here to pick up one man.

Strange, he thought, as he guided the small ship down through the turbulent air, blinded by the purple cloud. Strange that they should only be picking up an individual. The IZP would never send a lone man away on a mission, and there was no way that they were responding to a distress call. It had taken them weeks in hyperdrive to get here. There had to have been ships that were closer to this location than Earth’s moon. It was absurd!

No, this definitely had been arranged and he had suspected as much even before their journey had started. Not only that, the whole mission was shrouded in secrecy. When he had inquired about the task he had been assigned, asking the same questions that dogged him now, he had been told that the mission was classified, that the details were strictly on a need-to-know basis and he, as always, didn’t need to know. The truth was veiled from all but a privileged few. But what was truth these days, anyway? In the end, a healthy financial bonus and his curiosity had put paid to his original suspicion. All the same, he was intrigued about whom they would be meeting.

His thoughts were interrupted as the purple cloud parted before him like a curtain and he looked down the ship’s nose to the patchwork of emerald and brown far below. “We’re through,” he affirmed to himself as much as to anyone. “Set a course for the pickup point,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

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*

Chris left Kate to tend to Bobby while he went over to check on Wyatt, who was coherent and lucid, just completely exhausted. His collapse was due solely to the fact that his legs simply could not hold him up any longer. With two people, including the team leader, needing medical attention, Chris found himself in the unusual position of being in charge.

“Par, can you stay here with Wyatt? Just keep an eye on him, he should be fine.” The Swede nodded his understanding. “Byron, I’m going to need you to give me a hand with Bobby. We’re going to need a stretcher, she’s not walking anywhere.”

“Okay, I’ll get to it.”

Chris turned to speak to Kit and was relieved to see that he had already taken up a position near the trees, his gun held close to his chest, clasped tightly in his hands. Good, Chris thought. One less conversation. One less confrontation.

Byron and Chris unfolded the fabric and assembled the poles that would make Bobby’s makeshift stretcher. At the pull of a cord, four small canisters injected liquid foam between the fabric layers which hardened quickly and set rigid. Within seconds the stretcher was ready. Gingerly, they picked Bobby up and lowered her onto it, Chris then strapping her down with straps across her chest, stomach, thighs and ankles.

“Is it safe to move her?” Byron asked.

Chris pulled a face. “I think so, but then, we don’t have much choice, do we?”

Kate surveyed the tree line that Kit patrolled like a caged animal, pacing backwards and forwards, retracing his steps over and over. It was a wall of vegetation for as far as she could see in either direction, a legion of trees whose advance had only been halted by the inhospitable surface of mud, the consistency of which would not support such giants.

“How do we know which way to go?” she murmured.

She started as Wyatt came up swiftly behind her. “That way,” he said confidently, pointing slightly to their right.

“But how do you know? The craft finder was lost in the crash.”

He tapped his wristwatch. “It’s not the craft finder that’s important. It’s what it told us.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“I programmed in the coordinates,” he beamed, expecting some recognition for his stroke of genius. He received the same, puzzled, vacant look. His smile dropped. “It’s not just a watch, you see,” he confessed, “More like a miniature computer. I programmed in the coordinates of the other ships we found here before we took off. It will also tell us exactly where we are. If you have the two, after that it’s just simple math.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly not impressed.

Wyatt’s face dropped.

“What? What is it?”

“I just had a horrible thought. I hope they make these things water resistant.” He brought the gadget up close for scrutiny, tapped it once and then held it against his ear, a look of concentration on his face. Then the frown became a smile again. “Just kidding.”

Kate’s face hardened. “That wasn’t funny!” She turned away from him and stormed off towards the trees, Furball chittering and bouncing along beside her ankles.

“Hey! What did I do?” he shouted after her, but she carried on, stopping only to wrestle her pack off the ground and onto her shoulders. She glanced back at him. “I thought you were supposed to be sick,” she called to him.

“No, just fatigued. I’m a lot better now.”

“Oh,” she said with disappointment. “Shame.” The sarcasm was sharp.

Following Kate’s lead the others began hoisting their gear up onto their shoulders and traipsing up the bank after her. Kit, Wyatt could see, was already tracing a course to intercept Kate, to prevent her reaching and entering the tree line and perhaps being lost to them all. Kit’s actions might sometimes be questionable, but he wasn’t stupid.

They assembled again at the tree line, Byron and Chris gently placing the stretcher back on the ground while Wyatt spoke to them.

“We seem to have been lucky. By my calculations, the shuttle lies about seventy miles to the northeast of us. I anticipate a two- or three-day walk,” he broke off and looked at the nearby trees, “…depending on the terrain,” he added. “Any questions?” There were none. “Okay, stay sharp. We’re not the hunters any more…” he tailed off. There was no need to finish the sentence; he could see from their eyes that the others had all filled in the blank for themselves. With a nod, he turned and disappeared into the trees. One by one they followed him, with Chris and Byron bringing Bobby along at the rear. Suddenly Chris stopped, forcing Byron to come to an unexpected halt behind him. Chris was looking back at the lake.

“Alex,” he said quietly, almost questioningly. A pang of guilt struck the youngster. How could he have forgotten his friend, betrayed his memory so soon? But Alex was gone, along with the
Santa Maria
, taken to a watery grave somewhere far below the once-again still waters of the murky lake.

Byron dipped his head in sorrow. “It’s probably the best place for him, kid,” he said. “Nothing will touch him down there.”

Chris looked at the older man and found genuine compassion in his eyes. A deep understanding of what it was to lose, and to grieve. He nodded and managed a smile that the other struggled to return. Without another word they turned and were gone.

The only traces of the small outfit were footprints in the mud.

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The skimmer banked sharply, dropping quickly to pass some hundred feet over the treetops. Substantial, now they looked like real trees, not the carpet of tiny green needles they had seen when they had first burst through the cloud. The small craft circled, slowed and then stopped, hovering above the forest.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” the co-pilot answered, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “We’re right where we should be, ten clicks due south of the
Santa Maria’s
position.”

“And there’s nothing?”

“No, sir. We’re not picking up any incoming transmissions.”

“But he should be here,” the pilot muttered.

“We could land…scout around a bit.”

“No!” The answer was sharp. “We’re under strict instructions not to put down unless we make contact.” The pilot looked at his watch. “He’s got a half-hour window. That’s how long we can stay here. In the meantime, scan the area.”

“Radius?”

“One mile. He should be that close at least.”

After tapping the console in front of him, the younger man let out a whistle of amazement.

“Anything?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, amused at the absurdity of the question. “Plenty. But nothing that resembles a human life form.” He looked at his colleague. “So what do we do now?”

“We give him his thirty minutes.”

*
  
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The minutes slipped by inexorably slowly and by the time twenty-five had passed, the two men’s small talk had all but evaporated.

“You still scanning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“Nothing, sir. He’s not within a mile of us, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t think he’s going to show.”

“So what does that mean?”

The pilot sighed. “We leave. Simple as that.”

“But sir, if we leave, this man, well…sir, we’re the only pick-up, sir.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“But, sir…” pleaded the other.

“That’s it, flight-hand! He could be dead, for all we know. What would you have us do? Wait around for a dead man? We have our orders and they are to be followed, not questioned. There is nothing to discuss!”

The co-pilot made as if to say something, to argue further and then decided against it and slumped back into his chair. It was pointless. The decision had already been made.

After a minute of difficult silence, where each man could sense the other’s frustration, the pilot spoke. “Okay, then. A compromise.” It seemed he had regretted his outburst.

“Ten clicks, you say? That’s what? About six, six and a half miles?”

The other nodded.