Alone...He had been sitting, staring at the door for hours. Wilkins had lost all track of time as his eyes focused on the far dunes of muddy sand. A crimson blush had just begun to form on the horizon as the moon's sun slowly began to slip into the sky. His eyes were glazed over with a thin film from his lack of sleep, but under the current conditions, sleeping was out of the question. He had to stay awake – and keep hoping. He had been so mindlessly intent on the far dunes that he didn't hear the hull door slide open. The wind outside had gone quiet not too long ago, so there was no loud howl as the door opened to alert him of the interlopers. When the door slid shut with a bang a few moments later, however, he was instantly roused of his dazed state. Below, in the main hold, he could hear noises, footsteps and some inconsistent mumbling.
The footsteps droned closer and closer as Wilkins heard them approach up the stairs. Nervously, he slipped out of the command chair and pulled the fallen predator's spear gun up. He crouched at the top edge of the gantry that led up to the cockpit. The first sight any enemy would have of him would be only once they came up into his sights. Wrapping his fingers around the trigger to the alien weapon, he tensed and waited.
He nearly pulled the trigger as Naylor's face appeared when he stepped up the gantry. Wilkins whipped the weapon up and away from the marine to keep from shooting. Naylor was caught slightly by surprise, and an annoyed look crossed his face as he realized that he could have just been speared.
"Well," Naylor stated, regaining his composure, "Nice welcome. I'm glad to see you again too, man."
Wilkins swallowed sheepishly and put the speargun back down by his command seat. He stepped back from the gantry to let Naylor come up into the cockpit, and shakily rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand. Naylor gave him a comforting pat on the back, and Wilkins silently slipped back into the pilot's command seat.
"Hey, Naylor," came Mager's somewhat urgent call from below. "There's a dead predator in the hold. Looks like someone speared him."
As Mager had barked out his find, Naylor had leaned down to hear. After hearing it, he looked back to Wilkins, who was shook nervously. "Not a bad job," Naylor commented.
Wilkins waved off the compliment and got down to more serious matters. "Did you get the fuel?"
"Yeah, Mager's filling it up right now. Were there any others with the one you killed? Four of them escaped us before we got attacked by the xenos."
Wilkins turned white at the statement. If Naylor had a bucket, he could have filled it with Wilkins sweat in just a few seconds. "No," Wilkins breathed, "H-he was alone." Then he added, almost mumbling, "Thank God."
"All ready Naylor!" Came the long distance yell from the gantry.
Naylor gave Wilkins his knowing smile. "You heard him. Let's get this bucket up into the air and on its way to Dengor!" He stated as he strapped himself into the copilot's chair. "The quicker we get off this rock, the quicker we can all get some well-earned shuteye." Wilkins had a somewhat puzzled look on his face as Naylor continued, "Then I can give that general and his freak scientists what-for."
"Aren't you going to see to your men?" asked Wilkins.
"They can strap in good and tight by themselves," Naylor replied, finishing strapping himself in. He grabbed the copilot's helmet from where it lay on the cockpit's dashboard. He looked at it somewhat perplexedly before donning it and strapping it on.
"Do you know how to fly one of these things?" Wilkins asked.
"No," Naylor admitted. "But I learn real fast."
Wilkins sighed, and then started the pre-flight check as he prepared for take-off. Naylor watched him intently, soaking in as much as he could. "Okay, power: on," There was a loud whirr as the ship came to life, interior lights brightening as the exterior landing lights clicked to life. "Primary thrusters: engaged!" he announced, as a moment later the dropship's huge engines rose in a crescendo of ear-shattering power. Wilkins looked down to the main fuel gauges, made some adjustments as the whine of the engines altered to his command. Once he was satisfied, he grasped the command yoke in his right hand as his left wrapped around the throttle. "Let's get outta here," he commanded, pulling back on the command yoke as he wrenched the throttle forward.
The dropship rose and spun as the huge ship's engines dried the muddy sand below the ship and sent it up in huge swirls around the ship. Wilkins continued to pour on the power as he raised the nose of the dropship steeper and steeper, one eye on his surrounding as the other watched the fuel gauges with equal intensity. Naylor watched Wilkins at work, absorbing everything the pilot was doing and ready to help if the need arose. However, as felt himself forced by the blood-draining G's deeper and deeper into his seat, all he could see was the red sky above and the thrumming sound of the automated computer voice ticking off the altitude. He knew Wilkins was in full control of the ship, and wouldn't need his help.
As black space began to replace the bloody red sky, Naylor felt the forces shoving him into his seat slacken, then slowly fall away. When all sensations came back to him and the ship's computer ceased to speak, Naylor looked to Wilkins. "We did it," the pilot cackled. "And we've got plenty of juice to arrive at Dengor."
Naylor nodded, unclipping himself from the copilot chair and removing the helmet, which he left drifting in the weightlessness. "Alright. We've got about seven hours before we arrive back at Dengor." He saw Wilkins's tired eyes and added, "We all need to get some sleep, you too. Just remember to set your alarm clock." He stated, with a half-crooked smile.
After Naylor had left the cockpit, Wilkins flopped back in his seat and let out a large breath. 'Finally, we're out of that hellhole!' He thought to himself. He unclipped his belt and set the autopilot. After double-checking the navigation maps, he set an alarm buzzer for thirty minutes out of Dengor. No need in oversleeping, he thought to himself. Clipping himself to one of the handholds in the cockpit's gantry, he laid himself out for a quick zero-G nap. Just as he dropped off to sleep he muttered "Out of the frying pan..."
Fifteen Thirty Hours Dengor Military Base 8, Underground Level 3Farrell couldn't sleep. For hours he had lain in his bunk covered with a cold sweat. The words the old man said echoed in his mind like a form of torture that he couldn't quite work out. Farrell rolled over and looked at the clock. It was only about 3:30 PM.
"Wake up call at six! Damn Longman!" Farrell hated Longman's absurd demand the marines assemble for inspection so early in the morning, and he regretted just seeing the old geezer in the recreation room, let alone talking to him. He sat upon his bunk and stared at an old rust stain on the wall. "Even if those guys make it back here how in the hell do they expect to win?" He mumbled to himself.
The other marines in his dorms were assembled around a folding table, wasting the idle time with a game of cards. They seemed oddly oblivious that the insane scientist Longman and his demonic pets had overtaken the entire base.
His mind was racing with what would happen if McGarrett's strike force returned. If they could beat the odds on the far-away moon, surely they could put Longman in his place. But what if they didn't know about what was happening here? He dropped to the floor and made his way around to the end of the bunk bed. There, he quietly opened the locker and removed a large whiskey bottle from within. Shaking with anticipation and dread, he removed the cap and took a solid swig from the bottle. The hot, burning liquid trickled down his throat, causing him to gasp, but he felt the fire pour into his nerves, steadying them.
He quietly placed the bottle back into the locker, and retrieved his uniform. Dressing quickly, he made his way to the door of the barracks and quietly punched in the code that opened the door. Longman had changed all the codes to keep the marines locked away when he so desired, but Callsign had managed to find the combinations, and had passed it on to his closest friends, along with a warning – stay out of sight.
Alone, Farrell slipped into the hall, carefully dodging the security cameras in the hall. As he neared an intersection, he caught the gleam of the cranium of two aliens on guard. As quietly as he could, Farrell slipped back and slid down another hall. It would take a much longer time to get around, Farrell knew, but Ludwig had mapped out a path through the alien patrols Longman had set up. Farrell had memorized them coming and going from the game room, and quietly slipped down the halls towards his target.
He wandered down the dark corridors thinking about every possible outcome that could occur if he was to help the marines if they managed to get back. Hardly any were very plausible, and he knew the repercussions meant death for not only him, but probably for many more. However, if they did manage to pull it off, they would be free of Longman for good, and his prospects of living longer were much better. As Farrell walked past the entrance to another corridor, something caught his eye. There was a light down at the end of the hall, shining through one of the laboratory windows that filled this area of the base. Against his better judgment, he decided to go check it out.
As he neared the source of the light, he could faintly hear screaming from beyond the tempered glass. It was so hollow and soulless it sent chills down his spine every time he heard it. Gritting his teeth against the nerve-wracking cry, he finally made it to the window and looked in.
There was someone strapped to a metal table in the room, and it took Farrell a moment to recognize him. It was Wakowski, who was stripped down to his waist. The marine was writhing in pain on the table, thrashing against it violently. The man's head rocked from side to side as he moaned in pain. As Farrell watched in transfixed horror, he saw Wakowski's chest suddenly buckle, as if something were pushing against it from the inside. Wakowski suddenly let out a murderous cry, followed by several lesser screams of pain as his chest bulged and rattled, reddening as it did so. Within the space of a few heartbeats, it was over, and Farrell was barely able to keep from vomiting. Wakowski's chest exploded in gore like an erupting volcano, and from the cavity within emerged a slick, whitish worm-like creature. Its head was eyeless and lined with rows of miniature razor-sharp teeth. These it gnashed as it struggled to free itself of Wakowski's chest. Though it bore two tiny arms, they were too small and feeble to aid it in extracting it from the large hole in the marine's chest. Wakowski moaned one last time as the creature slid out of the chest cavity with a liquidly slurp, and then the marine's head slumped back against the table, his expressionless gaze staring up at the plain metal roof above. The just-birthed horror slid across Wakowski's corpse, and then it bent down to begin devouring the flesh of the slain marine.
Farrell recoiled in horror at what he had just seen. He glanced about to see if anyone had caught sight of him, but the hall was empty. Loping away from the awful scene, Farrell steeled himself. "That does it," he angrily muttered, the horrific scene still reeling in his mind, "I'm gonna help those guys shove these fucking aliens right up Longman's ass!"
Sixteen Hundred Hours Dengor Military Base 8, Underground Level 3"Roll Call," Farrell stated, flicking the barracks lights to get the marine's attentions. Apparently, they had quit the card game and returned to their bunks. With nothing left to do, several of them had simply taken a nap. Marines groaned and rolled over, shouting at him to cut the lights.
"Farrell," Johnson asked, rubbing his eyes, "what gives? We ain't got guard duty." Johnson blinked, and then asked, "And what the hell are you doing in your underwear?"
Farrell looked down at his dress-downed self, unconcerned. He then stated, "We gotta talk."
"What the hell about?" Johnson asked, fumbling for his own pants.
"I…," he stopped, looking around at the pitiful marines groping about, either trying to wake up or stuffing pillows over their head in an effort to go back to sleep.
"What's the matter man? You seem..."
"What?" Farrell barked. A quizzical look engulfed Farrell's face as he continued to stare at Johnson.
"Well," the man mouthed, thinking, "distant? Dark? Depressed!" he shouted the last word, pointing at Farrell. "That's the word! Depressed!" He cocked his head slightly at Farrell, who seemed for the entire world jolted out of reality into some realm beyond. "What's going on?"
Maybe this wasn't a good idea, Farrell thought to himself. They don't care. Farrell stepped forward, paused and started to walk past Johnson. His anger at Wakowski's death had now shifted to doubt. Longman had put that thing in him, he thought to himself. How easy would it be to do it the others? To him? As he pondered the cost of rebelling, he patted the huge marine on the shoulder and spoke. "Nothing man," the darkness in his eyes seemed to vanish as he buried it. He looked around momentarily at the other marines as he realized he needed time to think and plan. Going off half-cocked would only get them killed. "I'll tell you later okay? Right now, I'm gonna get dressed."
"Good choice, man!" Johnson guffawed. He snickered, "we got a lot to do today," he stated sarcastically.
"Yeah," Farrell smiled, facing towards the door to the barrack. His mind tumbled as a plan began to form. "We do have a lot to do today."
Eighteen Hundred Hours Dengor Military Base 8, Underground Level 3The rest of the marines had finally filtered out of the room for dinner, under the watchful eye of two of Longman's black-skinned drones, leaving Farrell with his thoughts. He had wanted to talk to Johnson, but the big brute of a man had left to feed his protesting stomach. Farrell wandered into his cold lifeless dorm and began searching for his uniform.
"Thought any more about what I said?"
Farrell wheeled round and fell back to his bunk startled. He stared into the dark corner and saw the old steely voiced veteran from the game room. It took a moment for Farrell to gather his wits before he dignified himself with an answer. "Jesus Christ old man! What are you trying to do? Scare the fuck outta me?"
"Hmh." The veteran seemed unconcerned, and then let his eyes drop to the floor. A moment later, he stood and handed Farrell the uniform he found. "Put your kit on," he stated in a low voice. As Farrell reached out and snagged the uniform away, the old man added, "I'd watch out for the stains in the crotch by the way." He cocked his head in sarcasm as he stated, "Don't you ever clean those?"
Farrell did not seem amused as he slipped into the pants "Yeah, yeah. Keep your nose outta my stuff, old man." Halfway into his shirt, Farrell asked, "What do you want now?"
"New info. The marines have made it off of the moon and are now on their way here."
Farrell stopped to poke his head out of the half-worn shirt. "What? You mean they made it?"
The old man nodded. "And on their way here." He repeated. Again, the old man cocked his head, as if assessing the trust he was putting into Farrell. "Question is; are you going to help them?"
Farrell finished slipping into the shirt. "Hell, yes," he whispered, sitting down on his bunk to finish dressing. He glanced over to the camera situated in the room, then noticed it was unplugged. He reckoned the old man had done it before slipping in, and he felt more confident speaking aloud. "I'm gonna help. But what are we going to be able to without weapons?" Before the old man could answer, Farrell also asked, "And what about the others? I need to sort out who I can trust. They may not want to put their asses on the line against these things." Finally, Farrell added, shaking a shoe at the old man "And what about that prick Longman?"
The old man sat on the bunk across from Farrell's, and lightly shoved the boot back down. "General McGarrett put a surprise package in the marine's dropship in case they got off the planet." Farrell's face curled into a long frown, but the old man continued, "Longman knows about it, and he intends to bring the marines to his doorstep," he paused, gave a slight cough, and then continued, "Longman needs them alive for now, so he intends to take them into custody."
The old man cocked his head slightly, then stated, "He's not dumb, and knows those marines would simply blow their way through any alien horde he sent to take them into custody. They'd be a bit more hesitant to blow away their fellow marines, so Longman will use them."
"That son of a bitch," Farrell fumed aloud.
"Hey! I'm old, not deaf," the old man growled. "There's no need to shout! Just get a hold of some marines you trust that are left. I've been watching you, and most of the barracks has been looking up to you. Make sure that you and your friends are the party that greets those marines and restrains them."
Farrell nodded, and the old man continued. "As you lead them into the base, make sure you don't tell them that you're there to help. Longman's cagey, and he might catch on if you did. Once you bring them to Longman, then the gig is up, and we can toast the bastard."
"Sounds like a pretty rough plan to me," Farrell stated. "You have any contingency plans for when these things go berserk with Longman gone?" he asked.
The old man nodded in acquiescence, "You handle Longman, I can take care of keeping these creatures under control," He replied.
Farrell cocked his head and asked as he caught onto the old man's last statement, "And what do you mean by, 'Tell all my friends that are left'?"
The veteran seemed slightly taken aback, and grimaced before answering in a low voice. "Well, you already know about Wakowski." Farrell nodded as the image of Wakowski's death welled up in his mind. There was a pause, then old man breathed, "Well, Ludwig has joined that rank as well."
Wakowski's death had been gruesome, but Farrell knew exactly the extent of its horror. He had seen it with his own eyes. Farrell could only imagine Ludwig's death, and it made him seethe with anger and grief for his friend. Farrell suddenly stood and stormed over to the wall, where he began punching the cold concrete with his fist, gritting his teeth as he did. "God damn that bastard!" he roared, sinking to the ground in frustration.
"Sorry for your loss." The veteran stated sardonically, not daring to look at Farrell. "But don't let it cloud your vision," the old man warned. "If Longman sees that hate, he'll know what you're planning. Hide that hate – until you're ready to unleash it." Unconsciously, the old man was flexing his hands, curling the fingers into tight fists and relaxing them as he talked.
Farrell looked down to his battered knuckles from where he had struck the wall. He had punched so hard he had left a bloody stain on the gray concrete, which he had smeared down the wall as he had slumped. "I don't know if I can do it," Farrell stated, as if defeated.
The old man rose and spun to face Farrell. "You have to," the old man seethed. "You are a soldier – a marine. You don't let your emotions keep your from doing your job."
Farrell's lip curled into a snarl, and he slowly rose. "Don't give me some piss-poor speech old man," Farrell warned. "Those were my friends that bastard had butchered."
"Then you owe it to them to do your job," the old man retaliated.
Farrell stood, his fists clenched, his anger welling. He wanted to storm out of the barrack, beat down an alien or two in the weapon room as he grabbed a vast armament of weapons and then hunt down Longman. But he knew he couldn't do it. Not alone. Even without Longman's control, the aliens would rip him to shreds before he got near a weapon. No, he had to play Longman's game. And that meant he had to keep his feelings hid.
"It won't be easy," Farrell stated, uncurling his fists and dimming his anger.
"No, it won't," the old man replied, "But if everything we did was easy, we wouldn't be marines." Then the old man turned and left Farrell's dorm.
Ninteen Hundred Hours Dengor, Military Base 8, Topside Level 1Longman sat in the quiet darkness of the conference room, sitting in the general's plush chair. The janitorial staff had done a splendid job of cleaning the room, and had even mended the furniture. The quiet, clean room helped him to take his mind off the loss of contact with the aliens on P-133. As a lone recessed light shown down on his chair, he casually leaned to the side to pet the alien hunched beside him. It crouched like a loyal pet at the scientist's side, unmoving and silent apart from a low hissing noise it made, like steam seeping from a broken pipe. Longman's hand absently stroked the smooth cranium of his pet, his mind beset by a thousand thoughts. The power he wielded now was immense, but he knew there was much more to be grabbed. But he needed time. Yet, at the same time, the wait was almost unbearable. Just a little longer, he thought to himself. If the general's marines make it back, I can move a little quicker. He tickled the alien under the jaw. How nice it will be for them to supply me with extra transportation, he thought. As he continued to stroke the alien's jaw, he felt a sticky drool drip onto his hand. Pulling it up to examine it, he frowned. Damn beast, he thought to himself, and then looked down to the alien. It had moved its head slightly, and seemed to be eyeing him.
Longman hadn't commanded it to move, and he stared dumbfounded at the eyeless face of the alien. As he looked on in astonishment, a sudden realization crept over him, and his mind flashed with anger. His assistant!
"Michaels, wake up," came Longman's annoyed voice. The young assistant, who had fallen asleep at the controls, awoke with a start at Longman's prod. He slowly sat back up, adjusting his glasses before realizing he had dozed off.
"I'm sorry Professor Longman, si-" he cut off the last word before finishing, and looked up at the unhappy Professor. "I've been up over thirty hours, I must have dozed off," he apologized.
"The skull has almost deteriorated," Longman stated, pointing to the glass case containing a refreshed xenomorph's skull. Victor realized Longman must have replaced it already. "Do you know what would have happened if it did?"
"Y-you would have lost control of the xenomorphs," Michaels stated apologetically. "I'm sorry Professor Longman, it won't happen again."
Longman watched the young assistant for several moments. Michaels was obviously speaking the truth about having been up so long, and the Professor knew he had overworked the young assistant. But he saw something else in the young man's eyes.
The young man had the same look in his eyes that Longman had before his father had passed away. He could see that the young man felt much more intelligent and useful than to merely watch over the xenomorph's skulls. More than that, he could see the ambition in the young man's eyes. The "what I would do if I was in charge" look that Michaels tried to hide from Longman.
"I understand," Longman stated. "You're right. I have pushed you too much," Longman conceded, to which Michaels sighed in relief. "And I can ensure you; I won't let it happen again."
Before Michaels could even utter his thanks, the alien sprang, knocking the young assistant from the chair. It wrapped its tail around the young man's legs, binding them and keeping the youth from being able to escape. Michaels railed against the creature with his fists, but it was useless against the steel-like carapace of the creature. With delicate precision, the creature cradled Michaels face with its hands, bringing forward the grinning skull until its eyeless gaze was level with its own. Slowly, it forced Michaels head down until its jaws were level with the young man's forehead. As Victor squirmed in fear, the alien seemed to smile, the razor-sharp teeth parting to reveal the inner jaws that quivered in readiness to strike.
Victor screamed as the inner jaws rushed forward, but the alien's jaws stopped mere millimeters from the youth's forehead. The alien released Michaels and stepped back to hover near Longman's side.
Longman stared down at the young assistant, still quivering on the floor, and spat, "Don't ever get delusions of taking my position, Michaels." He continued his warning, "If you ever let one of those skulls decompose fully, not only would the aliens kill me, they won't hesitate to kill you." At that Longman turned and started to leave, his "pet" following along. It took one last backward glance at the quivering form on the ground, as if reluctant to leave the former meal behind. "Get some rest Michaels," Longman stated as he approached the lab's door, "And remember what I said." With that, Longman left the room.
Twenty-One Hundred Hours Dengor Military Base Control Tower"Have you got a lock on them yet?" Longman's anxious voice shown through his normally calm exterior as the technician before him fiddled with a host of controls. "Well?"
"Not yet, sir," The technician replied, continuing his adjustments, carefully couching his words. "They'll enter our transmitter range in 25 minutes then we can override their controls and guide them in."
Longman could hear the fear in the technician's voice. He liked it, he liked the power it gave him and how important it made him feel to be feared and respected. "Can't you just open a hatch and let all the air out?" He suddenly asked.
"Uh, no sir. If I, uh, did that, the ship would implode from the loss of pressure," the technician replied, sweating as he stated it. It was a lie, but Farrell had told him to get the marines to the surface alive…
"God damn it!" Longman swore, slamming his fist into the table beside the technician. Behind him, the tech heard Longman's pet hiss in equal dissatisfaction. "Alright then," the scientist conceded, "Get together a squad of marines to meet them at the drop site."
"Um, yes sir," the technician replied, trying to hide his joy. It was time to call Farrell. "Uh, sir, aren't the strike force marines armed?"
"Hmm?" Longman asked, and then realized what the technician was getting at, "All right, tell them to retrieve pulse rifles and one magazine of ammo each." He wagged his finger at the tech. "But no grenades. I don't want any shenanigans."
"Yes sir," the technician replied, reaching for the intercom's controls.
"And quit calling me sir. Call me Professor."
"Yes, professor."
Previously, Nineteen Hundred Hours Dengor Military Base, Underground Level 3When Farrell had finished his proposal and laid out his plan, most of the marines simply sat quietly in their bunks or on their footlockers that made makeshift chairs. Several shook their heads, while others just seemed to stare into space.
"You're serious man?" Collin's stunned look matched the tone of his voice. Collins was another of Farrell's friends back from Earth. The two had graduated together and both had decided to join the marines. Though they had been sent to separate training facilities, the two had ended up with assignments at Dengor Base.
"You really want to do this man?" Johnson asked, his face almost pleading for Farrell to reconsider. "I mean there are four of us and god knows how many on that ship. We ain't gonna have enough to face up all of Longman's pets!"
"I know we're outnumbered," Farrell said, "But we aren't suck-ass soldiers either! We signed on as marines because we're supposed to be as tough as ten men each." That comment did not seem to inspire the others as they gave Farrell rather nasty looks. "Longman is gonna let us get some weapons even, so he doesn't suspect a thing. All we gotta do is take him out, and his pets will be sitting ducks – we just take over the controls. We ought to be able to take his butt out and his little bodyguard too, right?" This time he got some nods of approval. "So come on! What do you say?"
"Oh well," Taylor stated, looking down at the row of tiny metals on his uniform. "I guess I better tell momma not to expect her little boy home this Christmas."
"You'll make it back," Farrell smiled, lightly jabbing Taylor. "And you'll have at least two more metals and half a dozen stories to go with them."
Johnson shook his head. It sounded like suicide, but somehow he knew that Longman would never allow the marines to willingly leave this base. Eventually, they would have to either fight or die. "If I get so much as scratched –"Johnson began, as he always did.
"You can gladly take my paycheck for the rest of my stint in the corps if you get hurt," Farrell stated, completing the old quote between the two. "I need you most of all, man."
"You're in bad shape if your plan hinges on him," Taylor stated.
"Well?" asked Farrell, "What about the rest of you?"
There were some muffled complaints, but the rest of the group finally fell into line. "We're in," they finally mumbled.
"God damn it," Farrell roared, smashing his fist on the pool table. "Are you guys marines or ladies?" He yelled, pointing at each of his fellow soldiers, "We don't do this half-assed. Either everyone is in 'til the end, or you're out. If we don't do this, we die."
There was a moment of silence, then Johnson stated quietly. "Semper fi."
There was a pause again, and then Taylor replied stoutly, "Semper fi."
It took a few moments, but finally the marines repeated the marine motto with the all the gusto of a squad determined to win. Farrell slowly saw it spread; they were in, do or die.
Zero Three Hundred Hours Dengor Military Base 8 Control Tower"Sir." Piped Callsign, calling to Longman's private room. It had taken a few minutes to get the scientist to respond to his vidphone.
"What is it?" Longman questioned the marine. He looked somewhat bizarre in his silk pajamas and the strange, wire-covered elongated helmet.
"The Dropship Crimson One is in reentry now, sir. I navigating them to bring them into Bay D." The technician's voice had grown in confidence with the good news.
"Good," sneered Longman. He flipped a communications switch to the lab downstairs, and Michael's still-weary voice greeted him. "Get the testing chamber ready. I want a full complement of our special friends ready to properly greet our new guests, understood?" Michaels, stumbling, gave his acknowledgement, and Longman flipped off the communicator. "There's going to be a bloodbath in there tonight!" He chuckled to himself.
Previously, Zero Two-Forty-Five Hours Dropship Crimson One approaching DengorNaylor awoke with a jolt as he felt his body strike the floor. It took him a moment to awaken and remember where he was. Gravity was back – they were entering the gravity well of Dengor. Carefully, Naylor made his way up to the cockpit. The other marines were awake and watched Naylor stalk to the cockpit.
"Wilkins!" Naylor called as he ascended the gantry. "What's our status?" He came into the cockpit to see Wilkins already seated, fiddling with the controls and banging at the gauges.
"We've been had," Wilkins stated, motioning for Naylor to take the copilot's seat. Naylor did so and let his eyes rove over the control panel. Several alarms were already buzzing in the cockpit, but nothing appeared wrong… the ship was powered, and slowly descending.
"I've turned off the autopilot, but something else has taken control of the ship," Wilkins explained.
"Damn McGarrett," Naylor snarled.
"Good news is they didn't cut the power to us," Wilkins stated, "It looks like whatever has control of us is bringing us in to the main docking platform."
Naylor blinked. "Maybe they don't know-"
Wilkins paused. "Should I make contact?"
"Give it a try," Naylor motioned, pointing to the comm.
Wilkins thumbed the comm on, and set the channel to the control tower's frequency. "Dengor Base this is Crimson one," Wilkins barked.
"Crackle…This is Dengor base, over," came the reply
"Uh, Dengor base - requesting clearance to land at primary landing pad," Wilkins stated uneasily, not sure exactly what to say.
"Copy Crimson One, you are being directed to docking bay D, over," crackled over the comm. "Your ship is being automatically brought in,"
"Understood Dengor base, request permission for manual landing," Wilkins stated.
There was a brief silence. "Negative Crimson One," was the reply. Wilkins quietly cursed. "Windstorms from north quadrant require automated landing sequence to remain active."
Wilkins looked at Naylor, who nodded. "There's no windstorms, is there?" Naylor stated.
Wilkins nodded in agreement. All of the ships sensors showed that though there were strong winds on the planet, they were the standard wind blasts the group had landed in the first time around. Wilkins turned the comm off and leaned back in the chair. Naylor paused, and then asked, "Is there any way to break free?"
Wilkins shook his head. "We'd have to shut down all the instruments – and the engine - to override."
Naylor thought a few more moments. "Can we bring the weapons online; somehow lock them onto the control rig? I know this thing has a few racks of missiles…"
Wilkins responded negatively. "The control tower has disarmed our weapon systems, and even if we could, it would take at least a minute to bring the missile racks to bear. If they didn't find some way to override us, the base has several AA guns – ones that can even track and shoot down missiles."
At that, Naylor slammed his fist into the dash. "Damn. He's thought about just about everything, hasn't he?"
"Naylor, they might not know you and your marines are on board. They may think it's just me."
"No," Naylor growled, his eyes hunting for the lights of Dengor's base far below. "McGarrett knows. He knew all along."
The cockpit was silent a few moments, and then Wilkins smiled. "Yeah, but I don't think he was counting on me…"
Naylor looked at Wilkins, a puzzled expression etched on his face. "What are you talking about?" Seeing Wilkins smile, Naylor asked, "Have you got a plan?"
"Do I," Wilkins replied, half questioning, half in bemusement.
Zero Three Thirty Hours Dengor, Military Base 8, Docking Bay D.1The dropship finally touched down on the steelcrete platform with a metallic click as the magnetic locks pulled the ship to pad. The dropship went quiet very quickly, leaving the howling wind the only sound echoing through the cold base. A few moments later, the heavy metal door to the base whirred open, and a half-score of marines in windsuits marched onto the open platform. Each borne a fully-loaded and armed pulse rifle, and they set up position on the dropship's rear ramp, out of arc of the dropship's disabled weaponry. The leader barked into his handset, and a moment later the dropship's rear ramp lowered. The sound of ten fully cocked pulse rifles being readied clicked over the howl of the wind as the marines stared at the ready into the dark hold of the dropship.
After a few moments, a lone figure dressed in pilot's fatigues slowly descended the ramp, his hands in the air. He had a kerchief over his mouth, and had down his visor so the sand in the howling wind wouldn't blind him. As the figure reached the bottom of the ramp, the leader of the marine squad loudly shouted over the wind for the figure to stop.
"Where is sergeant Naylor?" the lead marine called out over the wind.
"He didn't make it back," the pilot called back, almost shouting to be heard over the biting wind. "None of them did."
The marine looked around at the others for a moment, as a worried flash echoed across several faces. Motioning to the others, the head marine ordered his men to the foot of the dropship.
The lead marine made his way up to the pilot and yelled, "We have information that sergeant Naylor and his marines managed to escape P-133 intact."
The pilot was Wilkins, who kept his hands in the air. He shrugged and replied in an equally loud voice, "I'm afraid you were misinformed. Sergeant Naylor and his troops were ambushed by three surviving predators while we were refueling the ship. I managed to hide during the commotion. They took Naylor and the other marine's skulls as prizes," Wilkins continued. "I escaped after they left."
The marine's leader, Private Farrell, glowered at Wilkins. "I don't believe that," he said, not bothering to raise his voice. Wilkins strained, as if he didn't hear the comment. Farrell turned to the other marines. "Search the dropship – be careful, they may be armed." He looked back to Wilkins and deliberately stated aloud, "I want them alive if you find them."
Farrell's men searched the dropship, but to no avail. There was no trace of Naylor or his other marines. Disgusted, Farrell led the captured Wilkins back into the base, the rest of his men following behind. Though he couldn't hear their words over the wind, he knew this turn of events was a serious blow. They probably wouldn't get another chance to dethrone Longman, and if Naylor was truly dead, the blow to morale would likely turn all of his friends against any idea of overthrowing the Professor now.
Naylor watched from the dark shadows just off the platform's edge. The others lie against the rock beside him, doing their best to keep hidden as the violent winds whipped around them. As Naylor watched the marines return to the safety of the base, Mager slipped up beside Naylor and tapped the sergeant on his shoulder.
"Did you bury the chutes?" Naylor asked.
"Do you know how hard it is to dig through solid rock?" Mager asked. He then added, "I found the base's junk heap and hid them there. No one will find them."
"Good," Naylor stated. Wilkins plan was going better than he thought it would. When he and the others had made that leap from the dropship, he was sure that the winds would have ripped the parachutes to pieces, or have dashed them against the sharp rocks of the moon's surface. But Wilkins knew the base almost too well. On the flight out of Dengor, the dropship had passed low over a heavy metal patch that had interfered with the ship's communication's gear. Wilkins had noticed the ship was passing back in the same direction, and would pass over the patch on the way in, at no more than 40 meters height. Dropping out at that point not only hid the marines from the base's radar and visual sensors, but with a few bulk cargo magnets strapped to the marine's jump packs, they could resist the drag of the wind and be safely towed down to the moon's surface. Naylor was a bit surprised it had worked. Now, they just had to get into the base.
"Alright. We wait thirty minutes to lower everyone's guard, and then we move in," Naylor stated. "Katie, you pick the lock. Silvio, Mager – you guard our flanks. Keep an eye out for cameras and sensors."
"Yes sir," the marines unanimous replied. Naylor smiled inwardly. The general was about to get the surprise of his life…