Explosives
“Four pods Inbound!”, snaps the satellite radio.
The ‘Boys already input general grid coordinates to get the pods close — and by close, I mean within 3 to 5 kilometers. And there lies the slight flaw in this plan. I started to ask the question when Rooster cut me off, “Affirmative. There is a small chance a pod will impact our position.” Good to know. I’m glad we cleared that up.
Making conversation, I asked about using the camera onboard the shuttle-pods and steer them in like a drone? “That is part of plan B”, Rooster said. “But we can’t count on the cameras helping out much because they only have fisheye lenses. The desert is huge and it’s very nearly impossible to find anything with a wide-angle image. But we’re going to attempt linking with LESSS and pick up the plant visually, then guide in those puppies. Paula and Musk heavies have provided security codes and protocols to take command of the shuttle pods – once we get the word. We’ll connect to the master pod, guide it, and have the others follow it in.”
“When is that going to happen?”
“Very soon!” Said a woman’s voice from just behind me.
Inbound
It’s Paula. She is wearing her desert loam flight suit from her Space Command days. Question: Why does Space Command need desert loam? The patches have been replaced with Musk Enterprise and Dragon patches. She looks very sexy in a flight suit — guys, back me up on this one. With a hint of perfume — the best thing I’ve smelled in days — and no offense to the dead and possible dead, but Jean Pierre and Henrick both smelled like goat fanciers with IBS.
Then Ram, the Dragon’s dog, rubbed against me. A few Dragon crew members appeared, and I’m really stumped.
“What are you doing here?”, I said.
“Oh, I can’t miss the big show.” Paula then switched to her commander voice. “I heard you got roughed up a bit. Did someone check you out?”
A hand touched the back of my head and I yelped, spun around to punch the toucher in the nose – and there stood Lisa Brookes, M.D., and ship’s doctor. Her blue rubber glove had my blood on it, and I stared at her for two Mississippi’s thinking what-the-hell!? She grabbed my arm and whisked me down the dune to a tent. I really shouldn’t complain too much because Lisa is a rather hot looking dirty blonde from Texas and has a commanding demeaner, like a big sister or mother superior but with a syrupy thick accent delicious enough to pour on your morning cornbread. I calmed down, then, naturally pointed out all my other boo-boos of the day, because she’s beautiful, and I asked when she’s available for a follow-up appointment. She chuckled as if she never heard that one before. Carefully, she treated the back of my head, my nose, my lip, my ear, my ribs, my bruised and fragile male ego — I feel the machinations of Paula at work once again. But I’m not complaining.
“Jim! You better get your ass out here or you’ll miss the fireworks!” Lisa and I ran out of the tent and up the dune, where everyone was waiting.
The SOF boys and Paula huddled around the LESSS monitor like it’s showing the final minutes of a Super Bowl game. Hah, as if they still existed. A few ‘Boys are teamed up with binoculars trying to spot the in-coming shuttle pods.
“Time of impact?”, asked a crew member.
Paula, viewing the monitor, “I figure about ten minutes. We put the shuttle pods on a 100-mile radius spiral turn to time it with the crew descent, safe arrival, acquire communication and control of the pods.”
We wait.
Control
“Control acquired! Lead pod image acquired!” yelled an SOF boy. A small cheer went up and everyone is moving. In Texas, the Musk group is seeing this too.
Seconds later, the binocular team whistled and pointed to the sky. We all looked up and could see the little, tiny white streaks go by. Not very eventful. Then, just as quickly …
Boom! Boom! Delay. Boom-boom!
So much for an exciting build up. The explosions are all far off and we stare at the monitor or the oil site bare-eyed. The Binocular ‘Boys are looking down range, but no reactions. A minute passes and … no reactions. LESSS monitor, despite all the high tech, gives no answers.
Then we see four columns of black smoke rise into the air above the plant.
We see helicopters back on patrol but not moving beyond the plant grounds.
Musk, in Texas, transmits a satellite image: all four pods missed long. Well, Dang!
Tom reluctantly states, “We never got fully on target with LESSS. The oil plant was in view, but we didn’t have control long enough and the pods were guided in close but not close enough.”
The explosions in the satellite image did form a crude line just north of the plant. One hit within a few hundred yards of an outlying building. I hope the eco-thugs are soiling themselves.
We see a small stream of rag-clad locals leaving the facility. Jeez! I forgot all about them! Evidently, they have no stomach for this sort of thing. Who can blame them!?
Musk reports a radio text message broadcast from the plant to UN HQ and All Concerned:
Terrorists failed in attack on the United Nations Mali Oil Facility just minutes ago. 8 missiles initiated the strike followed by a large terrorist commando assault. Missiles downed and terrorist ground assault repelled. Currently mopping up scattered terrorists.
Lying scumbags.