“I fucking knew it,” she whispered. Morag saw that his right hand was deformed from the impacts, as she expected it to be. In his gloves, she saw that the small bones of the fingers, the knuckles and the metacarpal bones in the hand were probably obliterated, and now more like splintered wood.
Idiot. Now you’re fucking useless when we need you most.
She was about to give Sam Reid a piece of her mind, when she saw Alex Hunter straighten and roll his shoulders. He held up his smashed hand, and while she watched, the bones within the gloves seemed to pop back into place, the knuckles sliding and moving, and the fingers straightening.
“What the…?” Her mouth hung open.
“Like I said, he’s different,” said Sam.
Alex took in a deep breath and rejoined them. Sam Reid placed one hand on his shoulder.
“He’s gone, boss, there’s nothing more we can do.”
Alex’s eyes were still blazing. “We can be ready next time. These things are not indigenous, and whatever came down in that shuttle is a direct threat.” He turned to the mist. “To be eliminated with extreme prejudice.”
“I hear that,” Sam said. He turned to Morag. “Let’s go.”
She let him direct her back to the group, but she turned a question gnawing at her. “Hey, I know one of the things you guys were supposed to do was search for survivors. If there was even the remote chance anyone made it down alive in that shuttle, how could they survive with those things down here?”
“They couldn’t,” Alex said.
Anne Peterson’s arms were folded tight, as she overheard. “If the fuselage was intact, they could seal themselves in.”
“Maybe, but unlikely,” Alex said. “These things seem strong enough to peel the skin of the Orlando open. Better for the astronauts if they were dead when they arrived.”
“Don’t say that.” Anne said something else, but it was unintelligible.
“It’s okay, Anne,” Scott McIntyre said, and reached out to put an arm around her, their suits chafing against each other. “We gotta keep some hope, right?” He looked from Alex to Sam.
Both had grim expressions.
“Let’s find that shuttle, and get the hell out of here,” Sam said.
Morag turned and saw Scott rub his wounded arm and grimace.
CHAPTER 23
Zlatan waved his men to a crouch. He momentarily ground his teeth from the pain behind his eyes — the headaches were still there, worse. And he was hungry all the time; not for the shitty protein bars they had all been given to last them the mission, but for something more… substantial.
He looked to his man closest to him — Stroyev — he looked different now. His brow seemed heavier, his entire head elongated. The man had never been handsome, in fact quite ugly. But now his features made him look grotesque. Even his eyes seemed — no, were — larger, and the pupils were glossy black and dominating the entire orb.
He faced away. Maybe I’m seeing things in this damned dust-fog. Or maybe seeing things clearer. He reached up and felt his forehead. There were strange bumps there and the brow was just as heavy as Stroyev’s. Oh Rahda, I wish I’d stayed with you. But he was determined to finish his mission quickly and escape this hellish place. Once home, he knew his fantastic metabolism could heal anything. They’d all be good as new in no time.
Zlatan pivoted, realizing his vision was sharper now and he could see further into the mist. Now he could make out shapes, and his mind formed mental pictures, impressions, without even seeing them.
He peered around one of the slime trunks that seemed to be growing larger by the minute. He knew now their mission was nearly complete as he watched the remains of the downed space shuttle orbiter appear out of the mist.
Getting close, it was bigger than he expected. The craft was 122 feet in length, fifty-nine feet high, and with a wingspan of nearly eighty feet. Both stubby wings had been sheared off, and there was fragment debris everywhere. He could see the long skid line disappearing back into the smog where the shuttle had come in and slid to a halt. Surprisingly, the ship was mainly intact, and looked to have come in on its belly in the semblance of a controlled landing.
Zlatan was impressed. He doubted even the best pilots in Russia could have achieved that landing on a low-visibility mountaintop and inside a crater basin.
The Orlando was mostly buried in the revolting mud, and now it looked as if the slime was trying to claim the fuselage by growing up and over it. Strange fans, nobs, and growths like mushrooms seemed to undulate back and forth across the skin of the craft as though deep underwater and moving in a soft current.
There was a tear in the metal skin of the craft at the bay area, but unexpectedly, the front cockpit hatch was open. Zlatan had been briefed on the American shuttle design, and knew the door could only be opened from the outside with a unique NASA key, or from the inside by the astronauts.
He had no instructions as to what to do if he encountered American astronauts. They didn’t concern him, and as long as they didn’t interfere with his primary objective, they were of no consequence. But if they tried to intervene, then they would be terminated. It would be their choice.
Zlatan motioned for his men to advance. In a line, they moved forward. He and Torshin toward the open cockpit hatch, and Russlin and Stroyev toward the rear.
He shook his head, hard, and scowled — the damned humming or buzzing was becoming more insistent. It even overshadowed the incessant whine within the particle mist. But now the noise was almost understandable as if it was a language. He tried to block it out.
The slime was thickening as they neared the craft, ankle deep, and Zlatan could see it actually spilled from every opening and rent in the skin of the shuttle.
He and Torshin were first to arrive, and they eased along the side toward the open door. His hand went to a pouch at his belt that held a small flashlight, but changed his mind — he didn’t need it anymore, as his eyes seemed perfectly comfortable in the low-light conditions. Zlatan nodded to Torshin and together they slipped inside, knives drawn.
There were no astronauts, alive or dead. As expected, the cockpit was in disarray, but amazingly a few of the tiny lights still glowed indicating that some power and possibly some applications were still running throughout the craft.
At the rear of the cockpit, there were some smashed glass specimen tanks, their contents gone. Torshin squinted at the remaining names still on the broken receptacles, and read in halting English: “Bradypodidae — three-toed sloth. Theraphosidae Arachnida — tarantula spider. Driloleirus — giant earthworm. Orthoptera — crickets. Linepithema humile — Argentinean ant colony.” He snorted. “Maybe the bugs were the ones in charge of the craft.”
Zlatan grunted. “Yes, funny; now find the camera data.”
Torshin straightened and began looking over the control panels. The data should have been stored somewhere transportable so it could be rapidly recovered once the shuttle had landed. This meant the US military could get their hands on their prize before waiting on NASA to release it. Zlatan knew this also meant they probably wouldn’t need to dismantle much of the equipment. All they’d need to do is find the media the images were stored on and eject it.
“Sir.”