Galactic Rescue Inc. Vol 1. Prelude

Galactic Rescue Inc.

  Vol 1

  Prelude

  Copyright 2011 James T Lay

  This book is dedicated to my wife Jen, who gave me no encouragement but did all the typing – eventually.

  Without her lack of support, this book would never have been printed!

  Galactic Rescue Inc.

  Vol. 1

  Prelude

  James T. Lay

  Chapter 1

  The Brunei jungle, heavy with trees, prickly bushes, ground and climbing creepers, swamps, and an incredible array of wild life. The denizens of the jungle endure the continuous scream of birds and insects and also the cry of panic from an animal resembling a two legged, muddy, Buffalo. The panicking animal is Pat, and hanging mate, a bull leech, bringing Pat into a flurry of activity. The other human in this epic event is Carl, standing safely on hard ground, smiling.

  “Get me out of this damn swamp.” Pat exclaims, in his broad Irish brogue, whilst his eyes begin to boggle at the sight of the disgusting creature.

  The subject leech is clamped onto Pat's hairy upper leg, prompting him to scramble up the steeply sloping bank onto the indistinct animal path they had approached on.

  “Carl, get it off.” He said, in a slightly high pitched voice.

  Now the leech is no easy customer to remove. This one is longer than normal, it’s cream and brown striped back beginning to hunch up in anticipation of half a leg of Pat's blood.

  “Hold still,” Carl advised,” we haven't got any salt and your lighter must be water-logged by now.” These being well-recognised removal aids, in Brunei.

  Pat was generously covered in delicious blackish-brown shiggy, a mixture of earth, peat, mud and Buffalo dung.

  Carl's hand approached the leg-and-leech pair with the index finger nail of his right hand positioned above the attached mouth.

  “This could scratch a bit,” he said, looking up at Pat's grimacing face,” but it should work.” With that, he rapidly scraped down Pat’s thigh with the nail, and the massive leech popped off.

  “I didn't know you could get them off like that.” Pat gasped, a look of instant relief washing over his face.

  “It'll only work if they're surprised,” said Carl,” fortunately you hadn't tried to pull it off, or else it would have really vacuumed itself on.”

  Pats leg was now bleeding quite profusely, due to the anti-coagulant the leech had injected.

  “It should stop bleeding in about fifteen minutes.” Said Carl.

  The swamp and leech confirmed Carl’s doubts that the path Pat had led them on, with much confidence, was going to end up leading nowhere.

  They were on a Hash Recce. The 'Hash' being a masochistic 'sport', very similar to a paper chase. Carl and Pat were the 'Hares', their job was to find the paths and lay paper which the Hash pack, the 'Hounds' follow, trying to catch the Hares. The Hares stop the trail of paper four or five times during the 'Run', this is called a 'Check', and the Hounds have to search around for the new, or 'On', trail.

  However, today was not the actual Hash Run, they were on a Recce to find the paths for the actual Run, Wednesdays for the Brunei Hash House Harriers.

  Pat Murtagh is well known as a conscientious short-cutter, he goes from one trail to another in the hope of finding a shorter route, when on the Run as a Hound. There was no-way that he was going to know the length or positive location of any path.

  “I was sure this was the path I had followed a couple of months ago,” he reasoned,” there was no bloody swamp then.” Scratching his head in puzzlement.

  “You mean that this swamp has just happened?” Carl queried, tongue in cheek.

  “No, you bloody idiot,” Pat blustered,” you must have made me take the wrong fork, back there.” Pointing back the way they had come.

  “Oh!” Carl said.” It's my bloody fault is it?”

  “Must be, it's not mine.”

  “Let's have a rest and a drink,” Carl suggested,” why not wash off the shiggy in that stream over there. Mind the leeches though.” Laughing at Pat's smelly body.

  “Good idea,” agreed Pat, looking down at his very muddy exterior,” then we can have a beer.”

  You could always rely on Pat taking a thirst-quenching drink with him, not cool lime juice or orangeade but bloody beer.

  “How much have you got in that bag?” Asked Carl.

  “Only twelve cans.” He answered, swilling off the mud in the gently flowing warm stream.

  Carl was staggered. To be prepared to drink twelve cans of beer whilst on a recce, with more in the car when they got out of the jungle, left him speechless. Pat could really knock it back. They were good friends, fellow workers at the local Helicopter Base where they serviced the Brunei Air Forces' equipment. Pat is single, about forty and enjoying life to the full. He stands about five feet nine tall and a little overweight, his hair beginning to thin slightly. His home is in Cork, Southern Ireland.

  Carl's a little older, fifty, with the name of Carl Webster, married with two children, both also married. He stands just over six feet tall and is at least two stone overweight, quite handsome, with shortish thick brown hair, swept back.

  “Sure you don't want a beer?” Asks Pat, sitting down beside Carl, clean - or near enough.

  “Not right now thanks.”

  Carl tucks into a two-litre bottle of ice cold lime squash. There was beer in his car but he couldn't face it on a recce. They sat and relaxed, Pat was in need of it for sure, he doesn't like the leech, especially the Bull.

  The surrounding jungle was in full cry, parrots and monkeys were nearby and the continuous clamour of the large insect life meant that peace and quiet was impossible. Luckily they were both shaded by a large overhanging tree branch. It was likely they would be balls of sweat if they were sat in direct sunshine. Carl tends to sweat in the shade, which is topping a generous 350C at the moment, but the sun plus the 95% humidity is hard to endure for any length of time.

  It's pretty hilly where they were at the moment, so it was really unlucky that Pat had slid into a swamp. His antics had aroused the mosquitoes in force and they were also on the large size. Time to move.

  “Lets move off, it's getting near to lunchtime,” Carl said,” I reckon if we go North for twenty minutes, we should cross that other path I mentioned earlier.” ‘Pity we hadn't gone that way from the beginning,’ he thought.

  “That's straight over that bloody great hill,” says Pat, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun as he looked up the steep slope,” let's walk round it.”

  So around was the route they took, no paths evident but not too bad as far as the ferns and brush were concerned. Ferns and bushes are always a problem, the ferns being usually six feet high and the bushes usually thorny.

  “What the hell's that over there?” Shouts Pat, pointing ahead and turning to Carl.” Looks like an old aircraft buried in the bushes.”

  They were at that moment traversing round a very steep part of the hill, with a reasonable cover of trees and ground scrub, and the side of the hill had slipped in places, forming two to three metre high mini embankments. It was in one of these embankments that the dark show of metal was visible. The metal resembled the side of a fuselage with about twenty feet visible.

  “It must have come down during the war.” Said Pat, straining to gain height in the vain hope of viewing more of the fuselage.

  The Japanese, British and Australians all flew around here in the 40's, during the war with the Japanese.

  “Looks in pretty good nick, no dents at all, where's the front?” Carl asked, as they approached to within a couple of metres of the smooth dark metal.

  “Can't see it, must be stuck in the
hill, same with the tail.” Said Pat, looking this way and that.” There's a door in that bush.” He continued, as he pushed aside the offending item.

  With that, it was ecology destruction time as the mad Irishman swung his parang around in the serious business of bush clearance. He was getting the desired result though.

  “Jesus, the place is covered in bloody ants.” He said, and started running around in circles chasing his backside, which was generously covered with medium sized black ants. He was a definite hazard and was likely to take Carl’s head off, or one of his legs, as he pounded away with the flat of his parang.

  “Are you going to help, or not?” He shouted, getting nowhere with his own efforts.

  “I daren't get close, you're bloody lethal with that parang.” Carl said, now able to brush away at Pat’s 'T' shirt and shorts, as Pat's parang was silenced, until the ants made a strategic retreat.

  “There's plenty of space to get to the door, just watch that bush, that's where the ants are holed up.” Carl said, standing back to enable Pat to make the first move.

  “Right, I'll do that.” Said Pat, surging forward.

  “Hang slack,” Carl said,” it might be full of snakes and the like.”

  “Give us your torch then,” said Pat,” I'll take a squint.”

  Most Hares take plenty of escape and survival equipment on a recce, they never know if they are going to get lost and left in the jungle overnight, or cut, or bitten by hornets or snakes, Carl and Pat had all the right gear, well, enough to get by with.

  Carl's torch was a ni-cad 8-cell job and could pick out a mouse at three hundred metres. Pat carefully edged past their ant friends and leaning against the fuselage shone the light inside

  “It's bloody clean in here and a damn sight cooler than outside, hey, maybe we'll find some treasure, it's not been poached before, there're no bits and pieces lying about, let's go in.”

  They both moved forward and tentatively entered the darkened hull. It was cool inside, and all the surfaces they could see were jet black, the walls, floors and equipment, all black.

  “Nice fit,” said Pat, reaching out to touch the cabin wall,” what is it?” Meaning the type of aircraft.

  “Don't know,” said Carl, looking all around for a clue,” see if we can find the cockpit, hope the crew got out ok, don't want to bump into them after 40 years.”

  “Alright you saying find the bloody cockpit, which way's the front?” Asked Pat, hands on hips and the torch forgotten.

  “Good point. Two choices, I say it’s that way,” pointing left,” the doors are usually on the left so we need to go left to find the front.” He said.

  “Smart arse,” said Pat, groping ahead and stopping with a grunt,” I've found a door.”

  It was then that it registered with Carl that he could see no windows or seats or cargo points or the usual floor. Everything was of a light-absorbing black with a soft touch floor; the curving sides were facetted with circles, squares and large honeycomb shapes.

  “Hey Pat, this floor is like rubber and there's not a bit of crap on it anywhere, after forty years.” Carl observed, scuffing his feet on the yielding surface.

  “Maybe the door was blocked by the hill and it's only just fallen away, anyway who cares, it's easier to walk on.” Rejoined Pat, pushing away at the front bulkhead.

  Carl couldn't argue with that, quite logical for an Irishman.

  “This door's a slider,” said Pat, as he heaved a panel aside,” smooth as silk, and will you look at this, it's the cockpit, I think, its got windscreens anyway, even if there are tree roots on them.”

  They had indeed entered a cockpit, of sorts, the biggest one Carl had ever experienced, at least five metres across by four metres high. There were two pilot's seats, very luxurious looking, with no skeletons as they had feared, with cushy armrests containing toggle and top-hat switches. The console had very few instruments, and those on show didn't resemble the standard l940’s piston engine tacho's and dials. There were no rudder pedals and no control sticks or wheels.

  “This ain't right Pat, it looks more like the wheelhouse of an oil survey ship to me.” Carl said, his view restricted to wherever Pat played the torch beam.

  “How the hell would a boat get here you bloody iriot?” He laughed, nearly dropping the torch in his amusement.

  “I didn't mean it was a bloody boat, just that it doesn't look very l940 aircraft-style to me.” Carl said.

  “You're right, oh bloody hell, what's that doing there?” said Pat, pointing behind Carl and up towards the ceiling.

  Turning round Carl espied what Pat was referring to. It was not a sight Carl recognised immediately but then it twigged. There was another one on the other side of the roof; two crew seats attached to the ceiling with no seat belts or sky-hooks.

  “What the sweet Jesus are they for?” Gasped Pat,” Maybe they're spares in case these break,. .. or something.” The tone of his voice echoed Carl’s own inner queries.

  To say there followed a pregnant silence was an understatement. They were totally bemused. It wasn't as if the seats could have been 'spares', as Pat put it, because they were actually facing sideways and were in front of consoles similar to the pilot's, and the instrument screens seemed to be head-height, that's if the crew member were sitting upside down.

  All in all, the whole aircraft was leaving a lot of questions to be answered. Carl was too confused to think questions, let alone answers. The black coating on everything was a mystery, it would have been so difficult on upkeep, maybe not - all a puzzle.

  “What are we going to do?” Asked Pat, leaning against the back of the left pilot’s seat.” We can't stand around here all bloody weekend, let's come back tomorrow.”

  “Hey, what was that?” Carl jumped. ‘That’ was a sudden air pressure change, the sort you get when you drive up a long hill and your ears clear.” Did you feel it?”

  “I sure did,” said Pat, looking for some evidence of the cause,” let's get the hell out of here.”

  With that, as a well co-ordinated team, they became stuck in the doorway in their haste to exit stage left.

  “Age before beauty.” Said Pat, a sweet smile on his grubby face.

  “You should go before me then,” Said Carl,” after all, you're hardly the epitome of what I would call a beauty.”

  “I'll go first, cause I've got the torch.” And with that Pat led forth.

  Quite an eventful ten minutes, and a real puzzler. Carl guessed that they would most definitely return and carry out a detailed search.

  “Watch it.” Said Pat, as Carl walked into him.

  “What you stop for?” Carl asked.

  “For your info we have come to the rear bulkhead and I don't seem to be able to see the 'in' door.” Pat answered, his voice had a slight quaver to it.

  Sure enough, they had walked at least twenty metres, and that was a considerable distance more than where they had entered.

  “We are not saying there is now no 'in ' door, are we?” Carl asked, straining to see their point of entry.

  “Looks bloody much like it, oh shit, I've got to get out now.” Pat said, a slight tone of panic emanating from his usually relaxed dulcet tones.

  “Turn the torch onto the fluorescent tube, get rid of the beam, let's have a better look, maybe the wind blew the door shut,” Carl said,” although, thinking back on it, I can't remember even seeing a door when we entered, only the opening.”

  “Help Mother, get me out.” Pat shouted, practically running on the spot.

  There was no door outline where they judged the door to have been when they entered.

  “That explains the pressure-change feeling a little earlier, the door had closed.” Carl said, a look of worry on his face.

  “Ok, but why or how would the pressure change, this heap is wrecked, or had you forgotten?” Said Pat, now a little calmer than moments ago.

  ‘He was right’, Carl thought.

  The search for the entrance was still go
ing on, but they couldn't find any obvious or devious way out. No amount of kicking where they thought the door was produced any tangible results, apart from a mass of cursing as Pat banged a sensitive bruise on the big toe of his right foot.

  “I give in, I'm having a beer, want one?” Pat asked, slumping to the floor.

  “Right,” agreed Carl,” get me a cold one.”

  The coldest beer Pat had was luke-warm and he was drinking that. They sat on the floor and considered the next move.

  “This is getting bloody serious,” said Pat, scuffing off dried mud from his calf,” what if we can't get out?”

  Silence followed a longer silence, which preceded a longer silence, apart from two well-cultivated belches.

  During the drinking time, Carl had been looking at their surroundings in more detail. The cabin, or whatever you could call it, was just too large to be a l940's aircraft, they simply didn't make them that big, it was at least five metres across where they were sat, wider than the cockpit and wider than any wide-bodied aircraft he had ever been in, as far as he could remember.

  “I have an observation.” Said Pat, suddenly sitting up straight.

  Carl gave him a sceptical look.” Big word for this time of the day isn't it?”

  “Listen to me you bugger,” he said, giving Carl a serious stare,” this aircraft is in the hillside and I remember an important detail that has me a bit worried.”

  “What's that?” Asked Carl.

  “It's just that the front of the fuselage that’s embedded in the earth isn't in earth at all, it’s in that lava-type of rock with the holes in. That stuff didn't happen in the last 40 years, did it?”

  Pat had a very valid point. It was the loudest silence Carl had ever sat in.

  “I hate to consider what that means.” He said, his voice held an element of worry.

  “What d'you mean?” asked Pat.

  “Exactly what you meant,” Carl said,” when was that lava-type rock made, it must have been a couple of million years ago”.

  “Don't talk bloody daft.” Said Pat. But from the look on his face, which was not a pretty sight, or site, at the best of times, he was more than a little worried.

  “We've got to get out, and quick.” Said Pat, and so saying he laid into the cabin, where the door should have been, with extra vigour. After two minutes he gave up.

  “Bugger that, it's like a concrete wall.” Rubbing his left foot with the heel of his right shoe.

  “There must be another way out.” Carl said, standing up.

  “How can there be, the rest of it's under the soil.” Said Pat. ‘He’s right of course’, thought Carl, ‘but what could they do, sit around forever?’

  “Let's take another look around,” said Carl,” any other door on that rear bulkhead?” Moving to get a closer look at the surface.

  A careful study of the bulkhead revealed that there was a panel, or door maybe, similar to the cockpits'

  “I mean, which way does it go?” said Pat, pushing, pulling, lifting,” there's no ruddy handle.”

  But he must have moved something because the door released and was able to be slid aside, into the thickness of the bulkhead.

  “Oh dear,” said Pat, backing up a little,” it goes round a corner.”

  Sure enough, the fuselage, or structure - or whatever, did in fact curve to the left, into the hillside, as the fuselage was sitting.

  “This gets worse and worse,” Carl said,” you'll notice the structure isn't buckled or broken, that means it's meant to curve. Who ever heard of an aircraft fuselage being bent sideways?”

  “I know lots of things that are bent, sideways as well, there's Alex and Paul a....”.

  “Bloody great,” Carl said, a slight trace of exasperation edging into his voice,” but what about this curve?”

  “Let's do the tour,” said Pat, squaring his shoulders,” we'll be no worse off.”

  “And no better off either I expect,” said Carl,” but we've nothing to lose.” As they both moved forward in unison, this time not getting jammed in the opening.

  They passed through three more doors, accessing different compartments of varying widths, one hardly larger than a corridor, but all covered in the light-absorbing black finish. The last door, however, led to a surprise. Deep into the hillside rock strata was set, what appeared to be, another cockpit, only this one had no individual crew seats, instead it had a couch of sorts facing a windscreen.

  “This is just like an observation lounge on an Irish Sea Ferry,” said Pat, his finger coming up in a sign of silence,” no, I'm not saying this is an Irish Sea Ferry, just like it.”

  “I think we should go back and try to get out again, it’s pretty cold in here, had you noticed?” Carl said.

  “Have that,” said Pat, rubbing his bare arms to raise the warmth level,” but we were all sweaty and hot when we came in, I've quite dried off now, even the buffalo crap has gone off me boots.”

  He was right, all the dung and mud had fallen off, and on their way back to the first cabin, Carl observed that there was not a trace of mud on the floor either.

  “It's no good kicking the cabin wall again, we'll get nowhere doing that,” Carl said,” the door must have a mechanism that closed it, if we can find it, perhaps we can actuate it open.” He said.

  “What's all this technical actuation shite you're giving me Carl, lets just open the bastard, and now.” Said Pat, in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Any ideas?” Asked Carl.

  “None.” He said.

  “Great.”

  For two well qualified aircraft engineers, they were not doing very well. A good study of the wall and its 'plated' covering revealed absolutely nothing, no screws, slots, buttons or movement. The material was impervious to their parangs and even broke the tip off Pat's fishing knife, Carl wondered what the hell Pat expected to do with a gutting knife on a recce in a Borneo Jungle. The mind of the Irish.

  “So what now brains?” Said Pat.

  “We'll have to find the operating switch in the cockpit.” Carl answered, moving in that direction.

  “You've gone bloody bonkers,” Pat said,” there's going to be no power on this ship if its been here for a single year, let alone 40 or more.”

  “So how did the door close then?” Carl responded.

  “Right, we'll look in the cockpit,” he said, determination in his voice,” what's it look like?”

  “It's the place up front.”

  “Not the pigging cockpit, the bloody switch.” Said Pat.

  “How the hell should I know,” Carl replied,” we'll have to search and try until we get the door open.”

  “Right.” Said Pat, stomping along behind Carl.

  They were back in the cockpit in a matter of seconds.

  “I'll try this side and you try that side.” Said Carl, sitting down in the left-hand seat.

  “Right.” Said Pat.

  After about two minutes they looked at each other in dejection because they had not had any success.

  After a pregnant silence.” So what now, it's all dead.” Said Carl.

  “There must be something that operates that bloody door,” said Pat,” you do one switch and I'll do the same switch this side at the same time.” For they had recognised that all the switches were duplicated on each of the seats and consoles.

  At the first movement of the first switch, on Carl's side and Pat's side, the entire tree roots and earth on the windscreen wavered about for a minute and disappeared.

  “Hey, see that?” Said Pat, jerking forward towards the windscreen.

  “Yeah, but where did it all go?”

  They stood up in unison and pressed their faces to the windscreen. Not only had all the muck gone but also it had left the screens spotlessly clean and the vision ahead was one of absolute blackness.

  “I don't get it,” Pat said, scratching away at a mossie bite,” what the hell's happened?”

  “I'm beginning to get the distinct impression we are into som
ething we can't handle, lets check that door again.” Carl said.

  To say it was a mad dash for the door is a gross inaccuracy. They arrived there in very quick time. The door was open. However, it was pitch black outside.