Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) by A J Marshall Read Free Book Online Page B

hundred . . . steady . . . what the . . . !” Matheson’s voice sounded tense over the speaker. “Stop the descent, Aldrin! Stop it now!”
    “What is it Mike?” asked Duval.
    “Er, we have a problem, Hera ,” Matheson replied. “Touchdown sensors are confusing the hell out of the landing computer. Doppler radar malfunction . . . I say again, Doppler malfunction. Try a reset for me, Hera – no delay, please.”
    “There’s no malfunction on my panel,” grunted Viktor.
    “Mike, this is Jacques. There’s no malfunction showing up here!”
    “Maintaining altitude, two hundred feet, holding altitude . . . we sure as hell have one here, Commander. Auto-land system’s gone goofy on us . . .”
    “Watch your fuel, Mike!” chipped in Alex. “One minute and twenty seconds remaining.”
    “They are past committal height . . . there IS no abort!” Everybody knew it, but still Viktor Aprashin’s word spread trepidation.
    Seconds passed; critical seconds. Mike Matheson’s calm voice belied the staccato words. “What the . . . ? It’s the landing site. The freaking landing site is still moving . . . It’s the goddamn lava flow – computers can’t lock on to the touchdown coordinates.”
    “Watch your fuel, Mike . . . put it down!”
    “Going manual, going manual . . . I have manual control, Hera .”
    “Put it down, Mike,” interrupted Alex, fretfully, “there’s no time for dancing . . . fuel for forty-five seconds!”
    There was a collective gasp on the bridge.
    “Over there . . . Mike, ten o’clock, fifty metres, see it . . . a clear area!” Aldrin’s voice was compelling.
    “Moving left, going down . . . one hundred feet!”
    “Another two degrees to port . . . on course. You’re on course Mike!” instructed Aldrin.
    “Thirty seconds of fuel remaining . . . no delay . . . no delay. Mike! Put it down!” Alex could barely contain his emotion.
    “Clear on this side! Down! Down!” blurted Aldrin. “Eighty feet, radio altimeter reads seventy feet . . . sixty . . . fifty . . . forty . . .”
    “Fifteen seconds of fuel remaining . . . On the ground! Put it on the ground, Mike! Do it now !” Alex gripped his head in his hands and leaned back hard in his seat.
    Dust and debris rose from the ground. It swirled and churned as a dense, yellow-coloured cloud that completely obliterated the astronaut’s view through his narrow window. That’s enough , Mike Matheson thought, as he closed the two thrust levers in his right hand simultaneously. As a result the Lander dropped like a brick. Moments later, there was a loud crash and then a precarious swaying movement and then there was stillness. Inside the module, subdued computer noises and the hum of avionics robbed the silence of its comforting effect and green lights skipped along the astronaut’s instrument panels. Mike Matheson looked across at his colleague; he nodded and then shrugged almost imperceptibly. He gave a brief half-smile to his friend as a thank you and then gestured as if to say: lucky ! Thereafter the two men sat rigid for several seconds.
    On the bridge of the Hera nobody moved or dared to speak. Seconds seemed like minutes.
    “Talk to me guys . . . Situation report please?” Alex’s cool demeanour fooled nobody. Sideways, he shared an anxious glance with Duval.
    Despite his totally professional disposition, there was a nervous hesitation in Mike Matheson’s delivery as he said: “The Osprey has landed. We are safely down, Hera  . . . All systems are green.”
    Back on the Hera, Joe Ansbacher, who was closely monitoring data on his life support display, watched with great relief as Matheson’s heart rate indication dropped from a peak of 190, to a more normal 109. Drake’s was a little higher but of no immediate concern. Meanwhile, Commander Duval’s shoulders visibly dropped and Carol Boardman stopped gripping the seat of her chair.
    “We’re