Chapter 7

Foster remained by the tunnel until Freeman's boots disappeared skyward, then moved forward, peering out the mobile's front windscreen. Slithering around the rear of the tipped vehicle, neither Straker nor Freeman were visible from his view, but he was able to follow their progress by the scrabbling noise they made against the metal sides. The noises ceased as they left the relative shelter of the vehicle, but Paul remained still, head tilted up, 'watching' them in his mind's eye until they'd disappeared over the peak.

His legs felt like the proverbial rubber, and, recognizing a sit-down-or- fall-down situation when he encountered one, the young pilot perched sideways on the arm of the bolted-down chair Alec Freeman had occupied on the way up. From this position he could still see out the window, his range of view embracing the U.F.O. and, at a sharp angle, the wreckage of zeta. The air was utterly still inside the mobile, not even the constant moan of the arctic wind penetrating its armored walls. He hadn't noticed how quiet it was when the others had been present, but now, without their companionship, he felt very alone. This reaction puzzled him. He was a combat soldier, trained to operate independently; why was he feeling so lost now?

"Foster, Colonel Paul J., number 804." He said the words aloud, emphasizing his rank, using it to reinforce the psychological conditioning he'd received in the military, to solidify the steel nerve that had combined with a brilliant tactical mind to make him a crack test pilot and the youngest command officer SHADO had ever had.

The self-encouragement worked somewhat, bolstering his resolve if not his energy. He leaned his head awkwardly against the seat back, a wave of dizziness taking him without warning. The concept that serious injuries mixed with the shock of having lost good friends violently would account for this uncharacteristic feeling of vulnerability in any normal human being was dismissed instantly as an excuse. There was no room for weakness in war, and it was a war they fought, make no mistake about it. Needing a diversion, he focused on tugging his sleeve up until he could again see his watch. It was a harder task than one might expect -- with his right arm completely useless, he had to use his teeth to pull the bulky material up over his wrist. He managed after some seconds, watching the digital display change from second to second then to the minute. The Commander and Alec had been gone less than four minutes; fifteen-plus to go. Considering how clumsy he was with only one arm, he decided to get started on his own task now -- it was going to take him the bulk of the remaining time to get into position.

Decided, he struggled out of the chair, forcing his leaden legs to carry him back to the open exit. With two good arms he would have had no problem climbing the relatively steep incline to the outside; with only one, it was a daunting task indeed. Resigned, he took a deep breath and shimmied headfirst into the tunnel; snow tumbled onto his bare face and in his collar, trailing icy fingers down each vertebra. He cursed, wishing he'd taken the time to find another ski mask or at least pull his hood up, but wasted no more energy on regrets than that. Digging his toes into the packed snow and pushing himself forward an inch at a time, it took several minutes before his head topped the tunnel, exposing him to the full effects of the exterior. The wind hit first, a physical blow, searing his lungs and making it impossible to draw a deep breath. Despite the cold weather gear SHADO suppliers swore would keep him comfortable through temperatures of -60oF, he began to shiver again, only stubborn determination preventing him from sliding down into the metal womb he'd just quitted and letting the relative peace lull him back into merciful slumber.

Using his good hand as a brace, he scrambled out of the hole, glancing at the nearly invisible lines attached to the upper side of the mobile in a crude pulley arrangement. One of them trailed down to a black metal object lying on top of the snow -- the rocket propelled grenade launcher already set up with a piton instead of ball-shaped mini-missile. As near as Paul could tell, it was ready to fire just as Straker had promised. He crawled a bit closer to it then stopped, remaining flat behind the shelter of the nearest drift. It cut the wind somewhat, the main advantage being that it also shielded him from view of anyone in the Ufo. Thus situated, he first pulled up his hood, then rechecked his watch. Four minutes.

Unable to see anything from where he was, he contented himself with pillowing his head on the hood's fleece lining, extending his hearing to the full and trying not to think of how miserable he felt. If anything, he hurt worse than before as his damaged muscles stiffened, and the pounding behind his eyes had now adopted the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Sleep would have been very nice, though he was very glad he hadn't eaten when Jocko had offered.

Jocko. Pain stabbed at the thought of the friendly Jamaican, this time centering in his heart. Since joining SHADO eighteen months ago, Paul Foster had gained many comrades-in-arms - stalwart men and women with whom he had not one hesitance about trusting his own life. What was lacking, however, especially in the upper command echelons, was the opportunity to make close friends. The very nature of their military structure discouraged if not forbade that. But Jocko Duval had been the exception - a man you could relax with despite rank, easy going and humorous without losing one iota of professionalism. The perfect counterpoint to Foster's deadly serious demeanor, not unlike the way Alec Freeman balanced Straker.

An image insisted on flashing across the viewscreen of his closed eyelids: Jocko Duval as Paul had first met him. The short Jamaican had been in full spacesuit with attendant gear, doing a preflight check on the lunar module at its planetside base near Leicester. He'd waited until Freeman had made the formal introductions, then broken into a wide, welcoming smile. "Don' you worry, mon!" he'd said, slapping Paul on the shoulder. "I train you up real good, like mah own little brother. Then you, Colonel, Sir, treat Jocko good once you got duh rank!"

The joke had made the wary student feel instantly relaxed, and the training had progressed smoothly from that point on. Foster sighed. Jocko Duval would be missed -- was missed. Loss caught him again, though, Foster reflected, he was getting better at suppressing his feelings if not dismissing them. He'd been too young to fight in the war with Mongolia and hadn't had a lot of battle experience despite extensive training, before coming to SHADO. Simulations could never teach you to distance yourself from those who might soon be lost. Straker had obviously learned that lesson well, either in the Chinese conflict or later, fighting aliens. Paul wished he could be more like him. Then maybe losing people wouldn't hurt so much.

Idly, Foster wondered if Lieutenant Ayshea Johnson would be sorry Jocko was gone, then realized his mind was wandering -- a dangerous thing in combat. He swallowed and pulled himself together, opening his eyes and looking again at his watch. Thirty seconds. Time to go.

With a test pilot's judgement and cool eye, he calculated the angle from the line attach point to the wall of rock and ice, hefting the grenade launcher in his left hand to get its feel. Being right handed was a drawback but not an insurmountable one, requiring only that he concentrate. He chose his mark, taking careful aim and hoping fervently that the charge would implant the metal rod rather than blowing his arm off.

He checked his watch again, watching the digital hit the 16:55:00 mark, then fired the rocket propelled gunHave someone set up grenade launcher, take grenade apart, use explosive , trusting Straker's estimation that they would be covering the alien by then. The detonation of expanding gasses was both louder and quieter than he had expected; the initial blast was near deafening though it was quickly eaten up in the surrounding snow, and Paul wondered if they had worried in vain about the sound carrying as far as the alien. His answer came at once, the flat, sharp report of rifle fire. The terrain was deceptive, for the echo itself translated through the frozen medium, carrying clearly across the circular valley to him even as he felt the piton smack home in the rock.

A little puff rose from the point of impact. The London born pilot dropped the pistol and caught the line, throwing his weight backwards; neither line nor piton so much as quivered. "Should do it," he muttered, next reaching for the automatic winch. It was a simple affair, a small, battery operated motor connected to a reel. Foster took a deep breath. "Hope that does it," then pushed the ON button. The motor caught, humming mechanically to itself. The steel cable shortened, grew taut ... the piton held, and suddenly Foster found his footing disappearing out from under him. Banked snow cascaded inward when the snowcat shifted, the powerful little motor pulling it physically upright; the hum shifted to a low whine as it continued to drag the vehicle sideways, managing four full inches despite the weight. With no more warning than that, Foster found himself lying sprawled across the steep incline of the snowcat's nose like a dead dear, and the air was filled with a burning smell as the winch overstressed and went silent.

"Th-that did do it." The phrase seemed unduly amusing and he laughed softly, barely sensing the shock induced hysteria that loomed barely beneath the fringes of his control. From his position atop the snowcat he had a clear view of the U.F.O. against the glacier; he could see something else as well -- a human figure in a light blue parka disappearing inside an aperture in the aircraft's side. He grinned, feeling unaccountably better for the sight. "Commander going to get a look-see after all."

Such a possibility for himself was no longer in Foster's thoughts. His arm was on fire, vitriol tracing from the broken bones into his shoulder, throbbing in rhythm with the ache behind his eyes. Pain erupted like a starburst with his first attempt at sitting up, then faded with his vision behind a muslin veil. Some part of him discerned that he was sliding helplessly from the cab, though the collision with the ground went unfelt, swallowed up as it was by all-encompassing black.

It must have been many minutes later that he came to. His first semi- rational thought was that he was going blind, for his world consisted of shadow on white. He turned his head slightly, realizing that his problem was that he was lying face down in the snow, and that the sun had well and truly dipped behind the rim of rocks sheltering this tiny bowl cut out of volcanic earth. His second thought was that he'd actually been more comfortable unconscious. The desire to retreat from the pain was tempting, but training and determination kicked in then, forcing his head up. The snowcat was as he'd left it, half-in, half-out of the blast pit, supported by the taut cable. He spat snow out of his mouth and rolled awkwardly into a sitting position, leaning his back against its metal side. Can't afford to pass out again, he admonished firmly, fighting to focus. We're not safe yet.

Using the 'cat as support, he climbed up onto the treads, inching his way back into the cabin. With a grateful sigh he collapsed into the operator's seat, panting noisily for several minutes, then composed himself and pressed the starter; the powerful engines roared to life. "Thank you," he breathed, putting the vehicle into gear. The treads engaged at once, biting into solid ground. There was a tug as the steel cable tore loose, then he was accelerating, making a straight course for the U.F.O.

Foster glanced down at his board, cursing the handicap of having only one working arm. "Weapons," he muttered, risking releasing the steering long enough to tap the joystick control. From above the cabin he could see the single short turret obediently swivel to the right, then back on line with the enemy ship. The press of a green button far to the left produced the low 'Click' of the failsafe being removed and a shell being injected into the chamber. "Armed," Foster said with satisfaction, confidence flowing back. "Now we've got a fighting chance."

He'd travelled roughly half the distance to his target when he felt something give under the port treads; he cut power instantly, bringing the vehicle to a stop. Snow's hiding something, he thought, watching with some fascination as a twenty meter section of snow quivered. Maybe another hole. He was close enough not to worry, though; from this range it would require only a few blasts of 20mm high explosive to reduce the alien ship to shards. At least, I could, he qualified with a degree of worry, if the Commander wasn't inside.

The side hatch was still open, arctic air pouring into the cabin; he shivered, debating getting up and closing the door, but the effort required at using the manual flywheel was almost too great to contemplate much less accomplish. He leaned his head back against the seat, taking a gulp of the freezing air, forcing his attention back under control. In this state of exhausted anticipation he waited, craning his neck occasionally to the right, seeking any sign of the returning Alec Freeman. Unfortunately, the landscape remained stubbornly quiescent.

"Where are they?" He chewed his lip, watching for several minutes, then sat bolt upright at the first almost subliminal quiver more sensed than felt. He frowned, blue eyes darting around the cabin; they widened when the vibration was repeated, stronger this time, its origin clear. "It's coming from the Ufo!" He stared, again straining his faculties for any evidence it was about to become airborne, but after sixty seconds with no further sign of activity, he began to breathe again, wracking his brains for some explanation. "It must have been exposed to atmosphere earlier than we thought!" he blurted, realization followed by an adrenal rush that brought him clear out of the seat. After exposure to Earth's atmosphere, the disintegration of a U.F.O. came suddenly ... and explosively.

Badly worried now, he made his way to the open hatch and peered out. There was still no sign of Freeman, nor had Straker reappeared from the alien craft. "Commander!" His yell echoed only faintly from the curve of the glacier face. He waited, listening, but there was no reply.

Warrior's instincts sent a chill down his spine having no relation to the sub-zero cold, and he debated less than a half-minute before opening the miniature armory panel and selecting a Browning High Power from its rack. He would have preferred a rifle of the type Straker and Freeman carried, but, even if there had been one left, he knew he would not have been able to handle it one-handed. He stuck it into his belt while he laboriously climbed out of the mobile, then regripped it. His hands were frozen, numb, but he forced his fingers around the butt, using his thumb to disengage the safety. He wasn't as good a shot as Straker, but he could well hit a target and the deadly Browning would take care of the rest.

A circuitous route to the alien ship was impossible -- as before, everything seemed to be getting farther away, and blurred at the edges. Foster squinted to focus, choosing a straight line to target, supremely aware of the spindly alien laser situated near its rounded top. Green fluid extended in a wide arc around the front, some of it vaporizing, the rest having already achieved a half gelled state from the cold. He frowned at it but did not slow his pace until he'd reached the open access port. Cautiously he peeked inside, a second hail already taking form. He aborted it before it could be uttered, intuition again kicking in to keep him silent. There's someone here. There had been neither movement nor sound from within, yet there was no question in his mind but that it was so. He clutched the pistol more securely, lips compressed, eyes narrowed. New energy filled him with this nearness to combat, banishing the fatigue on a wave of adrenaline fuel.

Warily, silently, he made his way into the first chamber, stepping lightly to avoid making a sloshing noise in the ankle deep, boiling fluid covering the floor. His gaze darted side to side, studying the compartment for potential threat. He was just passing the central console that had so intrigued Straker when a minuscule noise from beyond made him pause. It took a moment for him to identify the sound that as a human voice, low and filled with an almost crazed fury.Ski mask gone-St's scene

"I'm not the last," Commander Ed Straker was saying in a tone Foster had never heard from him before - there was blazing rage in the cultured tones, a hatred unutterable in SHADO's confines. "They'll be others to end your threat forever!"

That was enough. In a rush Foster burst through the open panel, flash scanning the situation in a fraction of a second. Ski mask gone, parka open to the waist, Straker lay spreadeagled to a flat operating table under a battery of instrumentation the very sight of which made Foster shudder. What appeared to be a metal shell casing sat to the side of the table, the type the aliens used to pack their human specimens for shipment to their homeworld. The alien itself, in full space suit, bent over Straker's supine form, a long metal probe poised over the human's bare chest.

"No," Paul whispered, horrified. The enemy was blocked by a piece of overhanging equipment; Foster took a step forward, trusting the element of surprise to bring him into proper firing angle before it could use that probe. The plan worked ... though not the way Foster had expected. He'd made it only a couple of meters before a creaking noise started in the ceiling; it was followed only a fraction later by several heavy metal panels unhinging from their mooring. One wobbled, then crashed down on Foster's unprotected form, knocking him to his knees, red agony exploding in his arm.

"Paul!"

Straker's yell penetrated the ruby haze only barely, but it was enough. Foster followed the sound back to awareness, blinking his vision clear. He swallowed hard, staying on his knees and using every effort to lift the gun, centering it on the space suited chest that was even now moving toward him. "Hold it." The words came out a growl, probably unintelligible to the invader, but the gesture of the gun was universal. The alien -- Foster could see that it was a woman -- stopped midstep, studying him clinically. There was no expression visible through the visor. The two, Foster and the once-human, regarded each other over the space of several feet ... and a hundred light years, then the woman started forward again. "Don't move!" Foster's last warning was followed by a twitch of his finger on the trigger; the resultant report was a loud blast, ear splitting in the confined quarters. A hole appeared in the alien's chest dead center even as the slender figure was hurled backwards. Spacesuit and body collapsed into a heap.

Paul spent several seconds staring at the body, adrenaline wearing off suddenly even as the ship began to shake, more violently than before. Straker's frantic yell penetrated again, forcing his concentration back to the blond American, who was struggling furiously to get free. "Paul!" he yelled, craning his neck to see the younger man. "You've got to get me loose!"

Completely spent now, Foster hooked the arm still bearing the gun across a crosspiece on the table and hauled himself wearily to his feet. "Are you all right, Commander?" he asked, tugging one handed at the wrist strap, trying to ignore the continued shaking in the ship.

Straker winced as another metal panel dropped from the ceiling, crashing on an instrument panel to their left. He gulped, his own light blue eyes wide with dread. "I'm a lot better now. Get me loose. This ship is going to blow any minute." "We ... knew... there was only a small window after exposure," Foster gasped, giving up. He wiped his eyes free of sweat and bit his lip. There didn't seem to be any obvious way of opening the manacles holding the man to the table. Foster studied the situation briefly, then chose an oddly shaped mechanism midpoint between Straker's wrists. He aimed the Browning, held his breath, and fired off a round into the unit. There was a click and the handcuffs snapped open.

"Good work, Paul." Straker sat up, rubbing circulation back into them while Foster freed his ankles in the same way, then then he swung both feet over the side, dabbing blood out of his reopened cut eyes on his sleeve. "We'd better get out of here." He slid off the table, supporting himself briefly on Foster's shoulder when his numbed legs refused to support him. The younger man braced himself as best he could, but his own strength had long since exceeded his limits; his knees buckled and only Straker's quick snatch prevented him from dropping them both to the floor. "Lean on me," the blond ordered, though he was none too steady himself. Foster had no choice but to obey; the ship was crumbling in earnest now, wiring dangling from the ceiling and spouting fluid like blood. Even as they watched, one of the light boards in the wall fell inward, crumbling to dust.

Straker's supporting arm under his shoulders, Foster stumbled toward the exit. The outer chamber was crossed in a half-dozen strides, then they were out under the open sky. "It's gonna go," Straker urged him when Foster stumbled in the snow. "We have to make it to the mobile." The younger man nodded, breathless, concentrated on increasing his speed, the security of the snowcat a tantalizingly near goal. They didn't make it.

The explosion came when they were twenty yards out. The flare came first, a nova bright light that turned twilight to high noon. Foster felt himself being picked up as though by a giant child, flung into the air. He had the impression of both height and speed, then dropped, landing in mercifully cushioning snow after an eternity in flight. Something landed beside him even as shrapnel rode the thunder that echoed from the surrounding hill ridge. Then it was gone and there was only silence and blessed blackness.

"Paul?" The words brought him back slowly, as though following a single thread in the labyrinth. Awareness widened, and Foster felt gentle hands turning him over. He opened his eyes to see a pair of concerned blue ones peering down, for once stripped of their emotionless mask. "Paul, thank God. I thought...." Straker gulped, wobbled back on his heels. He expanded his chest, drawing in a deep breath, and when he again met Foster's gaze he had regained some tattered remnants of his control. Emotional distance, Foster thought, but something inside his chest warmed anyway.

"Hoy!"

"Alec?" Straker's head snapped up, his mask again fleeing before elation. His lips twitched a welcoming smile as the Welshman appeared panting so tired that he staggered. "Alec, you old Mongol-fighter! What kept you?"

Freeman's laugh choked into a wheeze. He slid to his knees, pawing off the skimask, brown eyes flicking worriedly to the still dazed Foster. "Bit ... of a clean-up," he panted. "How's the boy?"

"He's fine and I'm glad to have you back." Straker slapped his shoulder heartily, frowned, and tipped his head back to follow a loud roar from overhead. "That sounds like Sky-1!"

"Little late for the party," Freeman grumbled, looking not the slightest bit put out.

Straker gave him a rare grin, then slid an arm under Foster's shoulders, his voice growing kind. "Let's get you back to the mobile, Paul. It's time to go home."

***