Chapter 1

Sitting in his office chair, where he had been for most of the previous two days, Lt. Col. John Hathaway wearily leaned forward and tapped the control to play the tape again. He put his arm over his bleary eyes and tried to focus as the familiar words started. He didn’t know how many times he had listened to them, but he kept hoping to uncover some clue in Commander Aadya “Kate” Khatun’s last transmission. Her communication from Mars had ended 40 hours prior, with her final few words arriving in Mission Control 14 minutes after she spoke them.

Kate was talking, almost in a whisper, as if trying to conceal her presence inside the small capsule nicknamed MOM that landed on Mars hours earlier with her and her partner Lt. Commander Hamza “Arti” Artsruni. The tape began with: “I can see Arti. He must be lying maybe 15 meters away from MOM. He isn’t moving. He was going to the small cave when he fell. I didn’t see anything hit him. He just fell face first.”

Small, quick breaths. “I really should go out there. I feel very guilty just watching.”

Silence for six seconds.

“What was that?” Noises, including a small bang. “Something smashed into the ground behind the module. I don’t want to leave MOM, but I may have to. She’s listing. Whatever hit the ground caused a small crater. The back end is tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. Wait a minute.” A pause.” “The closed-circuit monitor is showing a lot of dots. I see flashes. MOM is rocking. I can see stones flying in the air and lots of dust.”

Another pause.

“The aliens must be shooting at MOM. I can’t stay here. I can’t tell how many ships are firing. They are very inaccurate. That’s not a bad thing. They are moving rapidly.”

Pause. More panting.

“It’s hard to sit here. The computer has shut down. I hope you can hear this. At least the monitor is allowing me to see what’s going on outside.”

Pause.

“Lots of noise. I can see at least a dozen planes. One just swooped past MOM. I wish I had an anti-aircraft gun.”

Pause.

“I am not afraid of dying here. I am just not fond of the idea of being captured by aliens. If one of them tries to grab me, I’ll remove my helmet and walk outside. I won’t last long. I know that.”

Pause.

“It’s odd to think of Arti being dead. From the looks of it, the back of his helmet has been crushed. He thought we’d be better off if we split up. I disagreed, but he wasn’t thinking straight. The long flight can really warp the brain. We did everything to stay active, but he seemed to be having a lot of trouble. I guess it doesn’t matter now. No place is really safe. Sure hate to think we flew millions of miles just to meet some hostile aliens. Aren’t they supposed to say, ‘Take me to your leader?’ These guys never got the memo.”

Pause.

Rapid breathing.

“So far, the readings on the radar screen show our mother ship is still in orbit. They haven’t tried to take it out yet. All their focus seems to be on the ground.”

Why? Hathaway thought, not for the first time. The Odin would be an easy target. Unmanned and lacking any weapons. Maybe the aliens could tell that and were focusing on an enemy they could see. What kind of equipment did they have that allowed them to identify life forms? Heat detectors? Carbon dioxide detectors?

“The dots are coming closer. I can clearly see it’s a small kind of airship with a rotator, like a helicopter, except much faster and more maneuverable. Reminds me of a wasp. Man, I’d love to fly one of them. I can’t see any rear exhaust. I don’t know what kind of propulsion system the planes have. They really zip around.”

Pause.

“One has landed.” Gasp. “It just dropped down easily, like a Harrier. But faster. Not much dust. The rotor has stopped. I don’t see a door. There it is. Stairs dropped down from under the cockpit. I don’t see anyone yet. Wait. Someone is walking down. Bipedal. Two arms. Very human like. Helmet. Very thin. The front of the helmet is reflective. Looks like he’s wearing some kind of dark uniform. I don’t see any insignia. He is standing next to Arti. Don’t do that! He turned Arti over with his foot. That’s awful. He’s unhooking Arti’s helmet. It’s off. He’s looking at Arti. I don’t see any communication equipment, like a radio or anything. I can’t tell if he’s reporting anything. Oh, no! He’s looking at MOM. He’s walking this way! He doesn’t seem to have a weapon. Radiation readings just shot up. Maybe that will stop him.”

Pause.

“I’m going back into storage and shutting the door!”

That was it. The tape ended. All video from Mars had ceased long before the audio conked out. The computers in Mission Control showed only blank screens and had from shortly after the two astronauts toasted each other during their arrival celebration. Kate’s audio also ended and then resumed after a 12 minute 45 second delay, but video was no longer being received.

Hathaway rubbed his forehead. Was he missing something? Kate was in the module, which had begun to tilt because of damage to the supporting ground. She had seen lots of aircraft and shelling. One alien plane had landed. The occupant had stepped out. He resembled a human and wore a helmet. Did that mean he could not survive in the weak Martian atmosphere? He checked Arti and then moved toward the module.

Thoughts raced through Hathaway’s mind. Had Kate survived? Had she been captured? The module had no weapons, but the interior door could be sealed shut. She would have enough food and oxygen for a few days. How long would the aliens stay? Would they have any reason to stick around if they thought both the module and ship were empty? They had no base there. No obvious presence. The robotic Rovers had traveled around the planet and detected no signs of life nor had any alien interfered with their roaming.

His secretary Patricia Wei came in with more coffee. She had a sympathetic look on her face. Secretaries must have training in that, Hathaway thought idly. His secretary in the Pentagon wore the same wry expression when a U.S. jet vanished over the Pacific Ocean. Hathaway looked at the cup. All he could see was an image of Kate in the rising steam.

Unable to think of anything else to do, he again dialed Boeing engineer Hal Worthington in Huntsville to check on the status of the backup rocket. The engineer didn’t take the call. Hathaway didn’t get upset. The poor man was trying to rush construction and had to be a bit annoyed by the steady stream of calls, like a child asking, ‘are we there yet?’. Even if by some miracle the rocket could be ready in a month, they couldn’t reach Mars for an additional four to five months. Plus, who would want to go anyway? The aliens could still be within distance to attack. A space trip to probable death hardly seemed appealing. Mission Control could arm the astronauts, but the aliens appeared to possess superior technology.

Reached via an internet call, Hathaway’s boss, PAL Industries owner Pohl Andre Laarson, listened to the tape. Hathaway had waited to contact Laarson, who funded the initial Martian exploration. Once the crew left Earth, Laarson had stayed away, just getting occasional updates, so he didn’t know what had happened on Mars; neither did the public. However, Hathaway reasoned, he couldn’t wait any longer. The media would find out soon enough anyway, and Hathaway didn’t want Laarson informed that way.

After listening to Hathaway’s report, Laarson seemed unconcerned. Hathaway hadn’t expected a strong reaction, as he well knew, Norwegians could be very stoic. Laarson nodded once or twice, as though enjoying a radio opera. His smile remained. Maybe, Hathaway thought, he doesn’t understand the depth of the crisis. So, he played the tape for a second time.

“I do not see why we cannot try again,” Laarson finally said, adding one of the Norwegian idioms he was so fond of: “Storm i et vannglass.”

“It’s not that simple. It’s not a storm in a glass of water,” Hathaway answered. “I can see one very dangerous reason for never going to Mars again.” He paused before adding a Norwegian phrase he had learned: “bedre føre va.”

Laarson laughed. “You are a quick study, but I do not believe in taking precautions,” he said. “Next time, we’ll go armed with mortars and long-range missiles. We will blast them from the sky.”

“With all due respect,” Hathaway said, “it’s a suicide mission. Who will man the guns?”

“I can see it,” Laarson said. “Like your Old West. Have you forgotten?”

Hathaway ignored the comment. Astronauts were brave; but they definitely weren’t stupid. The science fiction pap fed to moviegoers for years had created illusions of what miracles humans could perform when confronted with hostile enemies. Millions of miles from home, isolated, however, no one could survive long with only the available equipment to rely on, especially with well-armed aliens lurking in the neighborhood.

He didn’t interrupt Laarson; the man was a self-made trillionaire, only 25, and no one was going to silence him. Eventually, Hathaway claimed a bogus call from Mission Control and closed the session.

Exhausted, Hathaway fell asleep in his office. He awoke, groggy and disoriented to his phone ringing. His wife was on the line. Checking the time, he saw he had only slept for two hours. He sipped cold coffee while assuring his wife he was all right.

Stop trying to handle this alone, Eva suggested. Hathaway agreed. She was right; everyone had a stake in what happened, especially when the news of aliens attacking the astronauts was released. Hathaway drew up a short list of people to plan strategies; Laarson wasn’t on it. He was busy reveling in the extensive media coverage while, at the same time, mourning the brave astronauts, whom he compared to the Norwegian soldiers of World War II and their battles against the overwhelming forces of Russia and Nazi Germany

Wei contacted the chosen participants. Hathaway wanted to keep the session small and limit exposure. As a result, all his choices were already at Cape Canaveral. No one had to fly there and risk alerting the media. After a shower and some clean clothes, Hathaway convened a meeting. By then, evening was settling over the Cape, with long shadows and concordant dark thoughts. One by one, the participants trooped into the conference room down the hall from Hathaway’s office: the oldest ranking astronaut, Jack Kelly; NASA assistant director, Heloise Simpson; Hathaway’s assistant Miguel Consuelo; White House senior aide Hereford G. Collins; and Dr. Ellie Dennis, NASA consultant on alien life.

Greeting each other with somber looks and dour expressions, they entered the conference room. They sat around the large table, which was ebony and seemed to reflect their moods. On the wall, the portraits of past astronauts smiled down at them. The screen behind Hathaway was blank. If all systems had been working, cameras on Mars would have been broadcasting images of the astronauts’, but video still had not returned.

Wei served coffee.

Hathaway did not welcome them. Instead, after briefly reviewing the situation, he explained the purpose of the gathering. Everyone nodded. From their expressions and haggard appearances, Hathaway could tell they also had gotten little rest.

“Any update?” Collins asked.

“None.”

“I haven’t given up hope,” Kelly said. “Kate can be really resourceful.”

“I am sure you are right,” Simpson said. She must have realized her enthusiasm rang false because she immediately quieted.

They all did, for a very long time.

Finally, Hathaway spoke. “Now what?” he asked.

No one answered. He slumped in his chair. Exhausted, he stared at the ceiling. He took out his earpiece and placed it on the desk. The others watched him. It seemed to signal resignation. He knew that. He just couldn’t bear the silence anymore. How did they ever reach this point? With the others lost in their own thoughts, Hathaway watched the scenario play out from the beginning on the shadowy ceiling.