Operator B

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CHAPTER 12

Ashton watched Wentz’s progress through the range-finder. She clenched a moment, grit her teeth, then shuddered as she reached for another time-released Duramorph. Until recently, she’d been able to control the pain fairly well but now it was just getting worse. Though the doctors recommended higher doses, Ashton wouldn’t hear of it. I’m not going to turn myself into a junkie, she vowed to herself.

The drug kicked in, lifting her. By now, Wentz was out of radio range, and by the time she’d composed herself and refocused the range-finder…

“Damn it.”

Wentz had already climbed over the edge of the ridge.

««—»»

Wentz’s mind was strangely blank as he climbed onto the second OEV, opened the top-hatch, and lowered himself into the air-lock. The hatch sealed shut above his head and then the chamber decompressed with a familiar swoosh.

Only when he stepped through the egress was he able to think, Somebody’s got some explaining to do…

He stepped into the cabin, then hit the slidelocks and removed his helmet. The flight seats were empty, but before he could turn around—

“It’s…Wentz, isn’t it? 41st Test Wing out at Andrews?” a voice queried behind him. “I saw you fly the upgraded 16s at the Paris Air Show in 88—damn good flying.”

Stifled, Wentz turned around.

“Welcome to the Tharsus Bulge, Wentz,” the voice continued. “My name is—”

Wentz could only stare. He already knew. “You’re Willard Farrington, U.S. Marine Corp,” he croaked. A pause stretched through the cabin. “Operator ‘A.’”

The man looked haggard in his S-4 white jumpsuit as he lay on a fold-down strap bunk. An unkempt beard, trace specks of hair cropping up around the sides of a bald head. Opened packages of MRE’s lay like litter about the bunk.

“They told me you were dead,” Wentz said flatly. “They told me there was only one of these things.”

“They told you a lot of stuff—most of it was a lie.” Farrington leaned up in the bunk. He seemed exhausted, or in pain. “What do you expect from the military? You know the game. But— congratulations, Wentz. You earned the ultimate prize, fair and square.”

“What do you mean?”

“You truly are the best pilot in the world.”

“No I’m not, sir. You are.”

Farrington chuckled. “The best pilot in the world doesn’t crash his kite, especially when it’s an operational alien spacecraft.”

“You crashed? Here?” Wentz was incredulous.

“I sure as shit did,” Farrington admitted. “Don’t that beat all, with all the nape-of-the-earth training we get? I came in too low over the first rise, smacked my six right into the ridge and belly-landed here. Still got air and climate-control but—” Farrington pointed toward the detent panels. “No power. All prop systems are deadlined.”

He wrecked, Wentz realized. “When?”

Farrington shrugged. “About eight weeks ago. That’s how long I’ve been sitting here.” Another chuckle. “Can you imagine how pissed off Rainier was when he got the news that I trashed his UFO? Fuck. I feel like the biggest asshole in the history of aviation. I make that meat-head who cracked up his B-2 bomber look like Chuck Yeager.”

“You can come back with us,” Wentz blurted at the news. “There’s enough room.”

“You still don’t get it, do you? Let me guess. They probably gave you some line about how they identified the virus from intercepted data transmissions or something.”

“Yeah… We knew but the Russians and the Japanese didn’t because their analysis technology isn’t as good as ours.”

“Um-hmm. Typical military bullshit. The only thing they knew from the jacked data was that there was live bacteria on the ridge. So they sent me up here to get samples. I’m the one who found out it was a virus, and I found out the hard way…”

Farrington pulled up his sleeves: splotches showed on his arms like a glittery, wet rash.

“You’re…infected?” Wentz asked.

“That’s right. And so are you—the second you debarked. Look at your boots.”

Wentz looked down at his EVA boots; they were covered with similar glittery splotches.

“A molecular osmotic is what they call it,” Farrington continued. “It goes through anything, it goes right through your suit on contact by squeezing through the space between the molecules but won’t cause your suit to lose its pressure. It invades living cells and inorganic molecules as well. Hell, it even goes through the hull—”

Then Farrington pointed to the floor, where thin, crisscrossing lines of the wet glitter shined.

Wentz was appalled. “They sent me up here knowing I’d get infected!”

“Yeah. But this stuff could kill everyone on earth. What choice did they have?”

“No, what right did they have to send me to my death?” Wentz shouted.

Farrington frowned. “Put a lid on it, will you? Every time we climb into a cockpit we know we could die. It’s part of the job. Hell, I’d have destroyed the probe myself but the EVA suits only have a hundred and twenty minutes of life-support. By the time their analysis determined that the shit up here was a deadly virus, my EVA gear was out of air. I couldn’t make any more debarkations. I was trapped inside this tin can.”

Wentz struggled to let the information sift in between his outrage.

“The QSR4 collector had to be destroyed. I no longer had the ability to unass this fuckin’ crate and do it myself, so they determined that you were the best bet to get the second OEV up here successfully.”

“Those lying sons of bitches!” Wentz railed.

“Give it a rest, man. We’ve flown in wars, we’ve flown in planes that no one else in world has the rocks to fly. Risk is part of our duty. You knew that the minute you made your first test flight. So quit bellyaching. Quit acting like a little kid and start acting like what you are.”

Wentz scowled. “What’s that? A chump? What else am I but an Air Force sucker?”

“You’re the best in the business,” Farrington said. “You’re the best to ever fly—you’re even better than me.”

Wentz just looked at him. Was there a tear in Farrington’s eye?

“You are Operator ‘A’ now,” Farrington said.

Wentz stood forlorn, eyes in a daze. Eventually the reality cracked him in the face. “How long…have I got?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been here close to two months and I’m fading. Heartbeat’s fucking up, dizzy spells, fever. Give yourself three months max.”

Wentz gulped, nodded.

“Jill’s with you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She tell you she’s dying?”

“Yeah,” Wentz said.

“She can handle this… But can you?”