A ‘Missing Scene’ Challenge Story
By Caroline Smith
Captain Ochre surveyed the seemingly endless horizon of snow-capped mountains through his scanning binoculars. It was the middle of September and he felt chilly in the Andean breeze. Thank heaven, he mused, for thermostatically controlled tunics and Spectrum-issue boots.
With a flick of the dial on the top of the binoculars he could zoom in on any point he liked. The sudden harsh caw of a condor punctuated the silence and made him jump. He lowered the binoculars so that he could watch it soar, catching the thermals.
Ochre stood vigil upon a rocky ridge at the north entrance to the Najama Valley, a beautiful, if lonely, spot in the foothills of the Andes. Across the valley, at the south entrance, his field partner, Captain Magenta, was beginning his own stake-out. Two hours earlier, the Mysterons had announced their latest threat, the destruction of the huge desalination plant that nestled within the confines of this idyllic place.
Ochre couldn’t see the complex from his position, but he’d studied the holo-blueprints with Colonel White and the others back in Cloudbase’s control room. So, he knew that twenty-foot diameter concrete pipes ran from the plant through rock and undergrowth all the way down to the Pacific Ocean, and that an array of pumps and turbines within the Najama complex drew in the sea-water, channelling it uphill to the plant, so it could be processed into fresh pure water to irrigate the interior of the country. Without this operation, thousands of acres of fertile land would revert to barren desert. They couldn’t afford to let the Mysterons carry out their threat.
What Ochre could see, was the magnificent Inca temple set high on a ridge overlooking the complex about two miles from his position. It was a five-storey stepped-pyramid, standing guard over the valley like a massive stone sentinel.
Six hundred years old, give or take the odd decade, and although not as ancient as its Egyptian predecessors, it was still impressive. Through his binoculars he was able to marvel at the stonework, each block sitting snugly next to its neighbour, like a giant puzzle piece. To this day archaeologists continued to marvel and struggle with, in equal measure, how the Incas had been able to transport so many monumental slabs of stone over such difficult terrain. The locals had been a bloodthirsty lot, according to the history books, and their gods demanded human sacrifice for the fertility of the land.
Only now, the temple served a rather more prosaic use as Spectrum’s main base of operations. Captains Scarlet and Blue had already taken their positions within its mighty walls.
His epaulets flashed.
Speak of the devil.
His cap mic swung down, and a familiar clipped English voice intruded into his reverie.
“Captain Ochre, what’s the situation at the North Entrance?”
“Everything clear here so far, Captain Scarlet.”
“Good, stay away from loose rocks. Blue nearly came a cropper when a ruddy great statue parted company from one of the temple walls. Damn near flattened him. Between that and the bats flying around, he’s a bit spooked.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Just tell everyone, thanks a million, Paul.”
At the sound of Blue’s faint but unmistakably sarcastic voice in the background, Ochre felt a smile edge the corners of his mouth up.
“Tell Blue-boy I’m happy he isn’t smeared all over the temple floor. Say, you think the Mysterons had a hand in it?”
“I don’t think so,” Scarlet replied. “The place is crumbling to bits, I’m pretty sure it was just coincidence. Anyway, we’ve found a good vantage spot; a balcony of the temple that looks right over the complex, so that’s where we’re setting up camp. I’ll be reporting to Colonel White in a few minutes. I’ve told Blue to get some sleep, I’ll be taking first watch.”
Lucky you, Ochre thought. That kind of insinuated Scarlet would be getting some shut-eye tonight.
“That’s great. How long do you suppose we might have to wait for the Mysterons to make their play?”
“If I knew that, I’d buy a lottery ticket as soon as I got back to Cloudbase.”
“They like to keep us hanging on by our fingernails, that’s for sure. So, there isn’t anything happening at the complex, that you can see?”
“Not a thing, and that’s the way I like it,” Scarlet returned crisply.
“I hear you.”
“I hate that we still have no idea how the Mysterons are going to destroy the facility.”
“A bomb, maybe?”
“Anything is possible, you know that.”
“The intel on this mission sucks, don’t you think?”
“I agree, but there’s precious little we can do about it but wait.”
“S.I.G., Ochre out.”
Ochre watched the condor’s lazy flight for a while, then set the binoculars up onto the rotating tripod. Set on auto-mode, they would beep if movement was detected by the sensors, and come nightfall, they would switch to infra-red mode. Unfortunately, the condor was still in the vicinity, so he had to keep it on manual or the damn thing would be going off every second.
An hour passed, and the light was fading with alarming speed. The condor decided to depart, flapping his broad, black wings lazily and making a great curving arc above Ochre’s head before soaring off. Ochre watched the giant bird until it was nothing but a speck in the distance, feeling oddly moved when even that vanished. The noble creature had been a bit of company in this lonely spot.
He watched sunset trumpet a fanfare of colours until the first stars appeared. The air temperature was dropping rapidly, so he dialled up the heating in his uniform and boots. He glanced at his watch. It was going to be a long wait, at least, he hoped it would be. Anything else meant big trouble.
Bored, he activated his cap-mic. Scarlet hadn’t wanted to keep in radio contact unless there was a good reason, but he hadn’t said anything about Ochre chatting to his field partner.
“Captain Magenta, how’s it going your end?”
“My end is just fine, despite the distinct lack of toilet facilities in this hotel. How’s things at the north entrance?”
“Much the same here at beautiful, downtown Najama. This hotel would be great apart from the lack of a bar. I could do with a shot or two of bourbon to keep me warm, or, even better, a warm body.”
“Any particular body in mind?”
“Does it matter?”
“Guess if you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”
Ochre snorted. “Huh, I think the fresh air has got to you. Anyway, better not mention any one by name – that way no one gets cashiered.”
“Smart move. So, what’s up?”
“I spoke with Scarlet a while ago. He and Blue were already getting into trouble.”
“That figures. We’re in the middle of nowhere…and they still find trouble. What happened?”
“Just Blue-boy attempting to be the filling in a stone sandwich.”
“Uh – run that past me again?”
“A big block of stone peeled itself away from the temple walls and nearly flattened him. Scarlet shoved him out of the way just in time.”
“For sure, that’d spoil your evening. Well, thanks for letting me know.”
“Don’t sign off yet, Magenta, I’m bored, and the nightlife stinks.”
“Same here, just a few lousy bats. Still, look on the bright side, that means no Mysteron shenanigans, and that’s got to be a good thing.”
“Unless they Mysteronise the bats, turn them into green-eyed bloodsuckers.”
“Oh yeah, sure, and they’ll go and bite who, exactly? All the service personnel have been sent off-site, remember?”
“Sure, I do.”
“So, what you want to talk about?”
“I’ve been thinking, and the one thing that’s really bugging me about this mission is this - how come the two of us are stuck doing sentry duty on our lonesome, while Scarlet and Blue get to cosy up together in the temple?”
“A darn good question, me boy – and one to which I don’t have a ready answer. The privileges of rank, maybe?”
Ochre grunted. “Okay, Scarlet’s field commander on this trip, but last time I looked, I’m pretty sure I was drawing the same lousy salary as him and Blue.”
“Not to mention the same lousy salary as me.”
“Yeah, and we don’t even get danger money.”
“No, we do it for the love of the job, and our fellow man.”
“Or woman.”
“Amen to that.”
“Scarlet told me Blue practically jumped out of his skin when a bat flew past his head, and that was before his little Indiana Jones adventure.”
In Ochre’s cap speakers, Magenta’s laugh was loud, not to mention infectious.
“Blue, scared of a bat? This is a guy who’s survived three attempts on his life before rooting out a bunch of nasties in the WAS, has to stand and watch while Scarlet gets impaled, crushed or set on fire on a fairly regular basis, and worst of all, has to put up with Symphony when she’s having that time of the month.”
“You’d better hope that he’s not listening in, or you’ll be spitting teeth.”
“Huh, he might have the height, but I’ve got a few moves that Blue-boy wouldn’t be expectin’.”
“Let me guess, you’ve persuaded Harmony to give you judo lessons.”
“Well, after I heard all about how she dumped you on your ass…and do I wish I’d seen that little show –”
“Hey, I was just going with the flow, making her look good...”
“That’s not the way Blue told it.”
“That sneaky sonofabitch. Wait until I see him.”
“Well, you might have to get even with Rhapsody too, she couldn’t wait to enlighten me on how you met your match at the hands of a five-foot one whirlwind, well, in-between her laughing hysterically about it.”
“Rhapsody? Jeez, women, and here was me thinking she liked me.”
“Maybe she’s had a better offer.”
“Yeah, right, as if.”
“Still carrying that torch, boyo?”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Touché; maybe it’s time we formed the Spectrum Lonely Hearts club, and we’ll invite Grey as the third wheel.”
Ochre gave a wry smile. “Those girls ought to come with a health warning attached. Speaking of which, if you’ve any plans for fatherhood, you’d better hope Symphony doesn’t get wind of that crack you made. I wouldn’t rate your chances if she comes after you in a hormonal rage.”
“I’d need a little Irish miracle.” Ochre heard Magenta’s faint sigh. “I guess the powers that be had it spot on when they wrote the Holy Dictates to keep our pants zipped at all times and our libido out of the game. But how the hell are we supposed to forget our hormones when we’re surrounded by such lush loveliness twenty-four seven?”
“Oh, I hear you, buddy, and that’s why sports were invented.”
“Now you’re talking. Did you see the ball game the other night?”
“Yeah, I was in the lounge watching it with Grey and Blue – wait a minute, I thought you were on duty in the radar room?”
“Sure, I was, and could the timing have been any lousier? The first game between the Mets and the Yankees in a World Series for ten years, and I’m on duty.”
“Well, I would have offered to swap if you’d said anything.”
“Nah, it was okay, I sneaked in a data-pad and watched the last ten minutes.”
“You sly Irishman.”
“What can I say? You think I was going to miss that last play?”
“Guess not, it sure was something; Grey was on the edge of his seat, and that takes some doing, he’s not normally a huge baseball fan. When Stanton came in to bat at the bottom of the ninth, with the Mets down to their final out and trailing by a run…”
“The hair was standing on the top of my head, I was muttering five Hail Marys in quick succession that the Mysterons wouldn’t issue a threat before it finished.”
Ochre grinned. “Stanton certainly had the luck of the Irish.”
“Hah! Luck had nothing to do with it. You’re only saying that ‘cos you’re still sore at the Sox trouncing the Tigers.”
“Don’t remind me, I still owe Blue a shift because of that bet.” Ochre glanced at his chronometer; an hour had passed, so it was probably time he got his head back totally to the job. Not that staring at mountains and a temple taxed his neurons in any way.
“You think you can stay awake till daybreak, Magenta?”
“I guess so, I’ve got my binocular alarm set to maximum beep in case I nod off, I’ve got plenty of hot coffee in the flask, and I’ve got a soup pack and crackers. Oh, and don’t forget the gum. What about you?”
“Yep, plenty of coffee, and a couple of pasties, and I think they were even made in the U.P.”
“There’s too much turnip and potatoes in your Yooper pasties. I had enough of both when I was a kid growing up. You’d think we could escape the damn things when we left old Ireland, but three thousand miles on the other side of the Atlantic we were still eating turnips and potatoes because it was all we could afford.”
“That’s tough. You’ve never mentioned it before.”
“Why should I? It isn’t the sort of thing you say to people when you meet them, is it? Anyway, like lots of other things, it’s all in the past, gone, forgotten.”
“Guess so.”
Except it obviously wasn’t forgotten, not completely, Ochre thought, and Magenta’s insistence just made that all the more obvious.
Ochre had been a typical self-centred teen, feeling oh-so-hard-done-by in comparison with some of his peers, just because he’d had to sweat a little to get the things he wanted, like flying lessons. But he’d always come home to well-cooked, tasty meals, not realising then, in his callow mind-set, just how much his folks had had to scrimp so they could put that food on the table, and here was Magenta admitting that he was so damned poor his folks couldn’t give their kids the absolute basics of life. How much did that affect a guy growing up?
Now, in the long pregnant pause between the two of them, Ochre’s thoughts inexplicably decided to take a journey down memory lane, all the way back to those first few days when Patrick Donaghue was introduced to their fledgling little band of superstars. With hindsight, Ochre recalled the high moral ground that he’d stood on with more than a tinge of discomfort, his flag of righteousness planted firmly at the summit, raging at the stupidity of his superiors’ decision to hire a ‘god-dammed criminal’.
“You still there, Rick?”
Magenta’s voice dropped Ochre right out of his uncomfortable contemplation. He cleared his throat to cover his sudden embarrassment, at the same time realising the action was pointless; it wasn’t as if his partner could see him.
“Sure, I am, but we’d better stick with code-names, never know who might be listening.”
“Jeez, now you tell me.”
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“Thinking isn’t your strong suit, boyo.”
“Well, I’d say something about bogs and Irishmen, but I’m not going to resort to racial slurs.”
“Who said anything about all Americans being eejits, it was just yourself I was insulting.”
“Oh yeah? I read somewhere that the problem with Ireland is that it’s a country full of genius, but with absolutely no talent.”
Magenta laughed. “And I bet it was an Irishman who said it. That’s our saving grace, laughing at ourselves, with style. For example, who but an Irishman could come up with – ‘other people have a nationality, the Irish have a psychosis – wait – I saw something move – just now!”
Ochre felt the familiar surge of fight and flight chemicals, his body readying itself for action. “What is it?”
“False alarm, it’s a rabbit of some kind.”
“A rabbit?” Ochre’s blood slowly uncongealed back to almost normal. “I didn’t know there were rabbits in the Andes.”
“Me neither, but I’m sure it was a rabbit, I definitely saw something with ears pop up on the infra-red, must be a burrow in those rocks about twenty yards away…don’t see anything now.”
“Well, you’d better keep those binoculars trained - we wouldn’t want an attack of the Mysteronised killer rabbits, would we?”
“Very funny. Wait a second, I’m just looking it up in Worldpedia.”
“Look away.”
“Ahh, it’s probably not a rabbit, but a chinchilla, a small, furry rodent native to these parts.”
“So, not cute, then.”
“They actually are quite cute.” Magenta went silent for a moment. “Ah, I see one popping up again, and another…must be a whole bunch of them down there.”
“Better watch they don’t set your alarm off.”
“Yes, I’d better check the settings on the sensors, although maybe the noise will keep me from falling asleep.”
“Speaking of, I guess I’d better get back to my post, or Scarlet will tear a strip off me for slacking.”
“Well, it isn’t like he’s going to see you now, is it?”
“I guess you’re right and, after all, Blue’s already on his way to crashing out the zees – the lucky S.O.B.”
“Sleeping the sleep of the righteous.”
“While we stick matchsticks under our eye-lids to prop them open.”
“Smug bastards, aren’t we?”
“Just a bit.”
There was silence for a while, and Ochre chewed the inside of his cheek.
“You still there, P- uh- Magenta? “
“Sure am, but I’m feeling a touch hungry, it’s been a long time since breakfast.”
“Yeah, me too, now that you mention it. It’s getting frigging cold too, I’m glad we brought those sleeping bags.”
“Maybe it’s time for a canteen break, so I’ll sign off for now. I’ll need two hands to pour the coffee and keep lookout.”
“Same here.”
“Take care, Magenta out.”
“S.I.G.”
The eerie silence fell once again, and the mountain air seeped insidiously through his uniform, despite its internal heating, so Ochre unfurled his sleeping bag and climbed into it, settling back against a rock outcrop to achieve as much shelter as possible. Then he lowered the tripod, so it was at optimum height, just in case he got extra-bored and fancied watching yet more rocks in close-up infra-red. Thankfully, the breeze had stilled, but his chronometer showed the temperature was a frigid minus three Celsius.
His stomach grumbled, a reminder that he also hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast, so he pulled out one of the pasties, pressed the red tab to activate the tiny heater unit within the bag, and waited thirty seconds. No point in fainting on the job and eating would at least give him something to focus his bored mind upon.
When the tab turned green, he ripped open the bag. Steam, and a waft of meaty goodness rose into the air and into his nostrils. He tried a tentative bite, but the filling was still volcano-hot, so he poured a coffee from the flask while he waited for it to cool. The silence lent itself to introspection, something Ochre wasn’t over-fond of at the best of times, especially now, when he seemed to be having an inexplicable guilt trip over his field partner after that comment about turnips.
The newly minted Captain Magenta had been a right deferential eager beaver, all ‘yes, sir thank-you, sir’ like a rookie cop wet behind the ears, and Ochre would have found it downright hilarious, if he hadn’t already known that the man had been a kingpin of crime in his New York stomping ground. Despite never having met him in the flesh, Ochre had been more than familiar with Patrick Donaghue’s activities, but he’d been told discussing the man’s past with anyone, including Cloudbase senior staff-to-be, was most definitely not an option. Ochre had fumed silently, unable to do or say anything under White’s orders, watching this guy schmooze the other captains, and turn that Irish charm on the Angels.
It didn’t take long for everyone to realise that Magenta’s capabilities with tech-ware was second only to Green’s, and by only the slightest of margins. It didn’t surprise Ochre: those skills had been liberally used to make the former crime-lord very rich, by cyber-hacking his way into the bank accounts of companies around the world without leaving any trace of his having been there.
After their intensive training at Koala was complete and Spectrum was finally battle-ready, White paired the two of them together. Ochre had gone ballistic -– what sort of sick joke did he think he was playing at – a cop working with a felon? But Magenta saved Ochre’s life one fateful mission, and after that, Ochre couldn’t quite bring himself to be quite so intransigent in his feelings towards the Irish-American. Like ice-melt in the Rockies in June, his animosity thawed remarkably swiftly, especially when Magenta confessed, one particularly boring stake-out, that despite his life of crime he’d never killed anyone, and he’d only got himself into his lifestyle due to boredom and a fervent desire to improve the lot of his family, so that his mother could live in a fancy mansion instead of a shit-house in Brooklyn, at the mercy of their thieving landlord.
Ochre could understand a little of that. By some grace, he’d taken the other fork in the road, but, if his circumstances had been as desperate as Magenta’s, perhaps he might have been lured down the path of least resistance. Twisted though it was, Magenta’s desire for money had been motivated by unselfish beginnings.
The rock wasn’t exactly comfortable, but the sleeping bag was warm. The next thing he knew was the sound of his cap-phones crackling into life.
“Hey, Ochre, are you awake?”
“Well, if I wasn’t, you’d be the last person I’d admit it to.”
“Oh-ho, you were nodding off, don’t try to kid me.”
“Well, what do you expect? I bet Scarlet’s getting some shut-eye right this minute, now that Blue’s had his beauty sleep, but the two of us are expected to sit here like wide-awake zombies waiting for the apocalypse to begin.”
Magenta gave one of his short barks of laughter. “Take it easy, I’m on your side. I damn near dropped off myself, just thought maybe a little craic would keep me from sliding into dreamland.”
Ochre shifted his butt, it was getting numb on the hard ground. “Good idea. So, what do you wanna talk about?”
A few seconds’ silence reigned.
“Uhh…well...”
Ochre snorted. “You’re the one who wanted a chat, have I got to do all the hard work in this partnership?”
“Funny, isn’t it? When you’re put on the spot like that, sometimes you can’t always think of something scintillating to start the conversation with.”
“That, coming from an Irishman? You’re the one with the blarney, unless that’s another stereotype I need to consign to the trash-can.”
“Maybe we ought to play a game or something.”
“I didn’t bring the chess board.”
“What about word a game of word association?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Scared you won’t be able to think of anything?”
“Course I can think of something.”
“If it’s less than five letters, maybe.”
Ochre grunted. He wasn’t going to let Magenta rile him - damn the man. Even now, after all these years of proving to himself that he wasn’t the dumb-ass amongst those senior officers and Angels with their fancy degrees, while he had diddly squat. He knew it didn’t make an iota of difference to the way he did his job in Spectrum, but sometimes, he felt just the slightest bit self-conscious about his academic shortcomings. He’d let that barb from Magenta sail right on in.
One to the guy from County Donegal.
“Okay, I’ll start this game,” Magenta said. “Taco salad.”
“That’s out of left field, not to mention it’s two words.”
“Ah, right, I should have set the rules out at the start, we’ll stick with one-word associations.”
“It’s fine, I’ll let you off this time, and I’ll return with, Caesar.”
“Rome.”
“Empire.”
“State.”
“Texas.”
“Dallas.”
“JFK.”
“Assassination.”
Ochre’s thought process stuttered for a few seconds.
“Apologies,” Magenta said. “That might have been a bit close to home.”
“Hey, it’s okay, I didn’t really die, after all, and I guess the idea of the game is to think of the first thing that comes into your head, so I guess you win that round.”
“That wasn’t fair, I rattled you.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You want to go another round, get even?”
“Maybe, in a minute, but you know, I was thinking, about something you said earlier this evening, about our lousy salaries…”
“Oh yeah?”
“I was wondering…would you ever?”
“Ever what?”
“Be tempted to use your computer skills to hack into the salary database and uh – tweak the numbers?”
A pregnant pause ensued.
“You actually want me to answer that question?”
“Hey, it’s purely hypothetical.”
“And that’s the way it’s gonna stay.”
“I’m sorry, it was a dumb question.”
“You’re damn right it was.” Magenta’s voice was laced with eighty-percent-proof hurt.
“Listen, you know I was joking.”
“That’s you, Rick, always joking.”
Ochre didn’t correct his partner about not using his code-name, he knew he’d stepped over a line.
“Magenta, you still there?”
“Where else am I bloody well going to be? I’m stuck here freezing my ass off while my supposed partner lays into me about the sins I thought I’d expiated a long time ago.”
“I’m really sorry, I mean it. I’m a dick, I was bored, and said the first thing that came into my head.”
“So now you want to play word association, it sounds a lot to me as if you’d already been thinking about it.”
“Okay, you got me, hands up. I was reminiscing.”
“Boy, you really must have been bored tonight.”
“What I’m getting at, is, when you talked about not being able to look a turnip in the eye, I was thinking about those first few months when we joined Spectrum.”
Magenta cursed once and loudly in Ochre’s cap-phones, followed by: “If this is your way of trying to make it up to me with that snarky comment, you’ve got a deliriously funny way of going about it. You treated me like scum, if you recall, even though I did absolutely everything by the book. Do you have any idea how much will-power it took to act like some snivelling, idiotic, subservient jackass because I wanted to prove to everyone that I was really prepared to leave my past behind and be one of the good guys?”
“Look, you Irish dim-wit –”
“Flattery will get you exactly nowhere, boyo.”
“I’m trying to say I’m sorry, for the way I treated you way back when.”
“Oh-ho, an apology…”
Magenta now sounded way too smug, but Ochre had tripped himself up into this stupid conversation, so he was going to have to go the whole nine yards and finish it.
“Yeah, it’s an apology, and I know it’s about ten months too late, but better late than never. I’m sorry that I didn’t give you a chance like the others did, at the beginning.”
“Well, to be fair, they didn’t know who – or rather – what, I was. I bet they wouldn’t have cut me any slack either, just like you.”
“I had a hard time with the Colonel because he chose to keep everyone else in the dark, but I guess with hindsight he was a smarter cookie than I gave him credit for.”
“So, does that mean you actually think I’m okay, then?”
“Probably.”
“Talk about damned by faint praise. Getting a compliment out of you is like trying to get the Pope to turn Protestant.”
“Listen, I’m glad we’re partners, okay? I wouldn’t enjoy working with anyone else half as much.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
Ochre was damn sure he could hear Magenta grinning from ear to ear.
Dawn stole over the mountains with a rose-tinted whisper, and the sun followed close behind, warming the air rapidly. Ochre’s eyes felt raw from staring into darkness for the best part of seven hours, and his joints were stiff. He ran his right hand around his jaw, felt the bristles there, but now wasn’t the time to worry about how he looked.
He untangled himself from the damp sleeping bag, stood up, and stretched out, arms raised high and legs akimbo in a homage to the sun-rise. He wondered if Blue and Scarlet had had an uneventful night after their initial escapade and decided now might be a good time to check-in with his compatriots.
“Scarlet.” The Brit sounded miffed.
“It’s Ochre. As morning has broken, I thought I’d see how you guys were doing. Is there anything wrong?”
“Not really, only that Blue was convinced he heard something within the temple as he drifted off to sleep.”
“Heard something? Like what?”
“Some small rocks fell to the ground beside him, he thought they came down from a giant statue he’d bunked down in front of.”
“Jeez, not again, he’s got a thing about statues attacking him on this mission.”
“I know, we searched the place with flashlights from top to bottom and couldn’t find anyone, or anything.”
“Maybe he dreamt it.”
“That’s what I said.”
“He seems a bit jumpy, and that’s not like Blue.”
“No, it isn’t. I have a bad feeling about this whole mission, so stay alert.”
Ochre decided against the silly and clichéd response; Scarlet didn’t seem to be in the mood for levity. “Well, an entire night has passed and nothing’s happened, you think the Mysterons have given up?”
“They never give up,” Scarlet snapped. “They’re just biding their time. An attack’s going to come, so we have to be ready for it.”
Ochre wasn’t sure that either he or Magenta would be much use after their sleepless night, but again, he wisely decided not to mention that.
“So, I take it we’re still staying put.”
“Until the Colonel advises us otherwise, yes. Scarlet out.”
Ochre tried not to sigh. “S.I.G.”
Ten minutes passed, and then his epaulets flashed red. Scarlet’s voice was more agitated than usual.
“Ochre, we think the Mysterons have made their move at last. Colonel White just called. The Euro Space Tracker Station has lost contact with the crew from one of their SKR4 recovery vehicles. Something’s jamming the frequency, and the commander, Major Moran, says it’s possible it might influence the vehicle’s re-entry and landing.”
“That sure is a worry, but what makes the Colonel think that it’s a threat to the plant?”
“Because Lieutenant Green has pin-pointed the signal somewhere in the vicinity of Najama.”
Ochre felt another cold rush of adrenaline hit his system. “You think the SKR4 has been Mysteronised?”
“I’m not thinking anything right now, but somewhere close by there’s a homing signal calling that SKR4. And the vehicle is filled with explosives, if it hits Najama then it’s game over.”
“What can we do, search the area?”
“I already suggested that to Colonel White, he says there isn’t enough time. I need you and Magenta to set your scanners to sweep for all radio frequencies. Get a triangular fix and that will pin-point the source of the signal. The Angels are on their way, maximum speed.”
“S.I.G.”
Ochre sprang to his feet, pulled his scanner from its resting place on the rock floor, and started the sweep.
“You there, Magenta? How’s it going at the south entrance?”
“Started my scan, should be complete in another few seconds. Right, got it!”
“Me too.” Ochre’s cap-mic swung down. “Scarlet: Magenta and I are sending our frequencies for triangulation – now.”
“S.I.G., Captain Ochre. Receiving and collating, Captain Blue will use the frequencies to get an exact location. Destiny has just called in, they’re three minutes away.”
Ochre stared up at the cloudless blue sky; he would catch sight of them first. The waiting was almost painful. “I hope Blue-boy got enough sleep to crunch the numbers correctly,” he muttered to the mountains, “or we might all be wearing wings.”
“Ochre, we have a position,” Scarlet interjected a few minutes later. “182 degrees, that puts the signal right inside the temple.”
“Inside the temple – so maybe Blue was right about that noise he heard –”
“Look, we don’t have time for chit-chat. The Colonel’s ordered us a safe distance from the temple, and the Angels are going to destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” Ochre was aghast. That building had stood for centuries. “Can’t we at least try to find the source of that homing beacon?”
“Forget it, there’s no time. You and Magenta will be safe at your current positions.”
“S.I.G.”
“You hear that, buddy? They’re going to destroy the temple.”
“Well, what else can they do?” Magenta replied.
“We could all have searched the place.”
“Scarlet said there was no time.”
“It’s a crying shame, the carvings on those walls are priceless.”
“You love all those old ruins, but the plant is more important, there are thousands of lives that need that water for their crops.”
“I know; you’re right.”
From the north, Ochre could pick up an approaching noise, the unmistakable sound of jet engines. “I guess the girls have arrived,” he communicated to Magenta. “Now they’ll do their thing.”
With a supersonic scream, the three delta-winged craft streaked over a rock-clad rise right into Ochre’s field of vision, flying fleetingly overhead his position on their way to the temple. The shock wave from their passing thrummed through his body, pinning him against the rock wall and assaulting his eardrums.
“Go girls,” he said under his breath, despite the tinge of regret that accompanied his words.
Destiny, as pack leader, dived in first. Ochre kept up a running commentary for Magenta. His partner couldn’t see any of the action, and in his place, he knew that would have been mental torture.
“Destiny’s fired a missile at the top of the temple,” he said, “Symphony’s following behind her – now she’s let off her shot.”
“Did they hit it?”
“Of course they’ve hit it, they’re at point blank range, god-dammit. The top wall has almost been blown apart.”
“Has that stopped the homing beacon, or whatever it is?”
Ochre frowned. “Guess not, they’re still going in.”
“Why the hell can’t they destroy the SKR4 itself?” Magenta said. “Surely it must be close enough to track.”
“I don’t know, Green mustn’t be able to locate it, so I guess that’s why the Angels are hell-bent on demolishing the temple, in the hope they can deactivate whatever’s jamming the signal.”
“Seems to me as if they might be using the proverbial hammer to crack a nut.”
The Angels continued their assault on the temple, heading in and out in tight arcs, their missiles detonating with deadly force. Gigantic stone fragments were hurled into the air, as well as clouds of grey dust. The violence of the explosions made the very air vibrate.
Ochre’s frown deepened, as a disturbing notion took hold of him. There was a very real danger that some of the ejected debris could hit the plant or the pipelines and cause some serious damage. Whatever circuitous plan the Mysterons had in mind for Najama’s destruction, it was beginning to look alarmingly as if Spectrum might well be about to do the job for them.
“Why the hell can’t the Angels just go hunting after the SKR4, if it’s minutes away they must have visual contact, surely? And why do they think that destroying the homing beacon now is going to stop that thing from plummeting earthwards on its current trajectory?”
Magenta’s questions were so logical that Ochre couldn’t help being convinced that the colonel must have had a good reason for his initial orders, and that Scarlet would’ve already ordered Destiny to attack the SKR4 if it was a feasible option.
The dust cleared, and Ochre had his first glimpse of the colossal statue of the sun god that had once been hidden from view deep within the temple walls. Now it stood proud from the surrounding mass of rubble that had constituted its former walls.
Instead of streaking skywards in search however, the Angels came around again to zero in on the statue. Ochre watched, dumbfounded, as Symphony led the charge, followed by Destiny and Rhapsody at close quarters. Following the barrage of missiles, the statue was engulfed in flame and toppled face-first into what remained of the temple.
Something caught his peripheral attention - a dark dot that got bigger and lighter with each passing second that he stared at it.
Sonofabitch.
Ochre didn’t wait to contact Scarlet directly, there simply wasn’t time for chain-of-command niceties.
“Destiny, I have visual contact with the SKR4, it’s heading in from the north entrance, you have to shoot it down – now!”
“Sacre bleu, I see it, Captain Ochre, but that was my last missile.”
“What about the other Angels?”
“I’m out too, Captain.” Rhapsody’s clear voice rang in his cap-phones, her voice taut with tension.
“Me too,” Symphony chimed in.
“Ochre, what is it?” Magenta’s voice betrayed the fear that Ochre himself felt swallow him up from the inside.
Rhapsody’s voice rose: “Oh no - we’re too late!”
Ochre stood helpless, fists clenched, unable to drag his gaze from the dot, continued to watch – impotent – as it loomed and morphed malevolently into the shape of the SKR4.
The silver bullet smashed into the centre of the ruined temple, exploding on impact. Showers of rocks erupted like geysers into the sky, and an immense pall of black smoke writhed into the air.
Ochre was jolted out of freeze-frame mode. “I can’t see the complex from my position,” he barked into his mic. “What the hell is happening – Rhapsody – Destiny!”
“It is a catastrophe!” Destiny’s voice was breathless. “The blast, it has caused a landslide, it is heading down the slope towards the complex.”
Ochre shook his head with frustration, listening to the ominous reverberations on the hidden valley side of the ridge.
Then – a sound to eclipse it all.
That couldn’t be good.
“Destiny, for Pete’s sake, is the complex okay?”
“No, Captain Ochre, the oxygen tanks, they did not stand a chance from the rockslide.”
His heart sank. “So – boom.”
“Yes, it is like Dante’s Inferno.”
“Rick, what’s happening? It sounds as if all hell is breaking loose.” Magenta’s voice echoed in his ears.
“We’ve failed, Pat, big time, that’s what’s happened. The plant’s been incinerated.”
“Najama’s gone? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. We’re going to get a roasting from the old man when we get back.”
“Apt choice of phrase.”
Ochre grimaced. “I wish I could laugh about it.”
“Well, it isn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Isn’t it? Maybe if Colonel White hadn’t been so keen to demolish the temple, the Angels could have saved their missiles for the SKR4. I don’t fancy being in his boots when he has to face the World President to explain how this all went south.”
Magenta didn’t reply. What was there to say, anyway?
Ochre turned away from the valley and looked despondently at the detritus from his makeshift camp. He consoled himself with the thought that at least the area had been evacuated and nobody had died – yet – but the possibility of hundreds, if not thousands of lives being blighted by the Mysterons’ success at disrupting the water supply for the farmland below the Andes, hung like an unspoken menace at the back of his mind.
Ochre found himself wishing he could reverse time. Maybe they could’ve done things differently – if they’d found whatever it was that Blue believed he’d heard… or targeted the SKR4 in the first place, after all, the World Space Patrol’s Space City was in the Pacific. Whoever had said that hindsight was an exact science was right, he thought sadly. Nevertheless, he would go through staying up all night again for the chance to do things differently.
AUTHOR’S NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons © is the iconic creation of Gerry And Sylvia Anderson. The copyright of the characters belongs with whoever owns them at this moment of writing, and I’m certainly not profiting from this story.
I’ve had this little idea in my head for several years, and that’s pretty much where it’s stayed. It always bugged me why Ochre and Magenta had to do sentry duty on their own!
Thanks to Chris B’s new challenge, it seemed like a good time to get the hazy fragment of thought out of my mental filing cabinet and attach actual words to it on a PC. My thanks as ever to my beta reading expert: Marion Woods, for her uncanny insight into how I can best finish a story, to Hazel Köhler for the final polishing, and last but certainly not least, to Chris Bishop for continuing to allow me to post my stories on her magnificent website.
Note: Yooper derives from the nickname of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula – the “U-P” - and is an affectionate term for people who live there.
Other stories from Caroline Smith
“FAN FICTION ARCHIVES” PAGE