Enigma Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Terrance Mulloy

  Tiny Empire Pty Ltd. All Rights Reserved.

  This publication is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and events are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author.

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  Contents

  Quote

  Memorandum

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Also by Terrance Mulloy

  The Emissary

  About the Author

  "We cannot help but come to the conclusion that the Moon, by rights, ought not be there."

  ~ Isaac Asimov, Author and Professor of Biochemistry

  "It looks artificial - almost like an engineering job."

  ~ H. P. Wilkins, British Astronomical Association, Lunar Section

  Chapter One

  U.S. MILITARY BASE: Lunar One.

  DATE: June 22, 2043.

  CONSTRUCTION CREW: 87.

  LOCATION: Fermi Crater region.

  MANDATE: Satellite monitoring, ICBM

  detection and tracking.

  T he base’s tiny clutch of lights looked sparse against the dark, crater-pocked landscape of the Moon. A large U.S. flag was perched high above the construction site, frozen and unmoving - a vigilant guardian to the men and women teeming below. With no sunlight reaching the far side of the Moon, the landscape here was almost black as the vacuum itself. Cold and remorseless. Numbingly silent.

  Large scaffolding structures towered over artificial foundations beds, starkly illuminated by arrays of powerful spotlight rigs. Construction personnel milled around giant automated drilling machines and autonomous dozers that were caked in grey dust.

  Each crew unit wore different colored suits. There was orange for drilling, white for logistics, and blue for engineering. As they worked, they all moved slowly and cautiously, like they were treading an underwater seabed.

  The primary drill had bored straight through the flat side of a mountainous ridge, revealing a gaping tunnel. Massive pumps and generators pulsated in silence, spewing out plumes of regolith through a tangled nest of outflow pipes.

  And to the left of this was a neat sprawl of igloo-shaped habitats and housing units, built for support staff and construction personnel. Everything was artificially lit. With no sunlight, there was no solar power.

  But there was heat.

  In the stale darkness of an igloo, two naked bodies - one black, one white - writhed passionately on a single bunk bed. This wasn’t tender lovemaking, it was a punishing workout regime.

  Zoe Lancaster, and her girlfriend of seven months, Sheryl Cox, collapsed next to each other in a sweaty heap. They laid there staring at the low ceiling, bare chests heaving as they worked to regain their breath.

  Although Zoe’s eyes glinted with a mix of intelligence and curiosity, she valued her rough-and-tumble attitude over her exotic looks. And despite being an integral and highly skilled cog in the mission’s engineering unit, she always felt more comfortable outside on the lunar surface, working in the greasy trenches alongside the pipefitters and welders. “Holy shit,” she whispered breathlessly.

  Sheryl chuckled warmly, still buzzing from her afterglow. “Keep this up, I may just have to marry you, girl.” If Zoe’s appearance felt somewhat out of place among the rugged construction crews of this mission, Sheryl looked right at home. More oil rig worker than an astronaut, she was brawny and scrappy, hailing from a proud lineage of deep-sea welders. When there was a beat of silence from Zoe, Sheryl rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow. “We do make a great team, you know.”

  Zoe continued to stare at the ceiling, still trying to catch her breath. “Then why ruin it?”

  Sheryl playfully punched her arm. “The hell does that mean?”

  “We’ve only known each other for a few months—”

  “Seven. It’s been seven months.”

  “You were the one who said we should keep it casual.”

  “Zoe, I had feelings for you the minute we first met… Look, I know a sure thing when I see it.”

  “So that’s all I am to you - a sure thing?”

  Sheryl play-punched Zoe’s arm again. “Bitch, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m being honest here.”

  Zoe turned over and held Sheryl’s gaze, searching her hazelnut eyes. “So am I.”

  When Sheryl leaned in to tenderly kiss Zoe, the moment was instantly killed when the alarm on Zoe’s watch began beeping loudly. They both groaned with annoyance.

  Zoe hopped up from bed, her tattooed back still glistening with sweat. She scooped up some underwear off the carpeted floor and moved over to her small built-in cupboard. Her room was no bigger than a prison cell. As she slid open the cupboard door, a roach scurried across her foot and disappeared under the bed. “Shit!” she yelled, jolting with fright. “Goddamn base now has more roaches than my old apartment.”

  “They come in off the automated supply drops. So much for sterile packaging.”

  Zoe dropped her head and slowly rubbed her tired eyes. Aside from being overworked, it was hard not to get cabin fever up here. Living among cockroaches just made it that much worse.

  Sheryl watched her for a moment. Knowing how rigorous her own schedule was, she could tell this place was really starting to get under Zoe’s skin. “You OK?”

  “Yeah. I guess,” Zoe replied unconvincingly.

  “Listen, I get it. Two years on this rock… it sucks. But it comes with the job, Zoe. We knew this before we signed up.”

  “I know. I just… you know, sometimes I miss home.”

  “I hear you. Fresh air, real food, warm sunlight on your skin…” Sheryl trailed off as her mind began to conjure thoughts of home.

  “This side of the Moon… no blue marble to look at… nothing but darkness.”

  Sheryl sat up and swung her legs around to the edge of the bed. Then, she reached over and gently took hold of Zoe’s wrist. “That darkness - it’s going to be a lot easier to navigate if we have each other.” When Sheryl was met with more silence from Zoe, she let go of her wrist and sighed with defeat. “I’m sorry— I’m not trying to pressure you into anything—”

  “We’re cool, Sheryl.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Zoe smiled, taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to her. “Hey, you’re my little Lunar Queen. You know that, right?”

  Sheryl laughed with a mix of relief and delight, shaking her head. “Oh god, that’s so fucking cheesy.” As Zoe leaned over to kiss Sheryl, they both collapsed back onto the bed and started cackling.

  Igloo six was a hodgepodge of air-ducts and passageways that led to a small command module. Littered with cramped computer consoles and cubicles, everything in here was plastic and bland. Most of the ventilation system was exposed, dropping down from the low ceiling.

  Zoe sat at her console, studying a detailed image of lunar topography. Her hair was pulled neatly into a tight bun, and she now wore a white jumpsuit which was riddled with mission patches and company insignia.

  She never looked up as the bulkhead door suddenly creaked open and
Ted Brennan entered the module, nursing his morning mug of coffee. He wore an identical jumpsuit, but was the complete opposite of Zoe. The patchy tufts of ginger hair that protruded from his greasy Dodgers cap made him appear dirty and unkempt. But like he cared. They were four-hundred-thousand kilometers from the nearest staff assessment officer. “You rang?”

  “Take a look at this,” Zoe said, idly motioning to her screen.

  Ted swigged his coffee and approached her console, eyes narrowing as he took in the data before him.

  “I was going through the radar results our orbital SAT sent down overnight - and this popped up.”

  On the screen was infra-red imagery of large, dark splotches underneath the Moon’s surface. Some areas appeared to be emanating heat.

  Ted’s surprise caused him to raise his eyebrows. “Damn. That’s a large signature.”

  “And, it’s sitting directly in front of our primary drill site.”

  Ted leaned in closer for a better look. “Looks metallic. Titanium? Maybe some type of aluminum silicate?”

  “Could just be a mascon.”

  “That big and dense?”

  Zoe deflated back into her chair. “Honestly, I have no idea what it is.”

  “How the hell did this not get picked up in our earlier prospecting scans?”

  Zoe shrugged. “Different spectrum perhaps. Whatever it is, no one was looking for it.”

  Ted swilled his coffee, his mind churning while he stared at the screen. “Think our drills could punch through it?”

  “Doubt it.” Zoe turned and caught Ted’s bewildered look. “Listen, keep this between us for now. I don’t want everyone getting excited - especially while the antenna arrays are being repaired.”

  “You got it.” When Ted went to walk off, he clicked his fingers as if suddenly remembering something. “Oh, Slater and his team are complaining about those vacuum loaders again. You want me to lodge another repair job?”

  Zoe huffed with frustration. “Does anything still work on this damn rock?”

  Before Ted could reply, the bulkhead door swung open and another scruffy-looking crew mate rushed in, heading straight for Zoe. Nathan Wilcox wore an orange jumpsuit, indicating he was on the drill team.

  Ted watched him approach, noticing the wired look in his eyes. “Jesus, Wilcox. How much coffee have you drunk today?”

  Upon reaching her desk, Zoe could see how rattled he was. “What is it?”

  “You need to suit up and come out.”

  “Why?”

  Wilcox’s terrified eyes held on Zoe. He gulped before replying. “We’ve found something.”

  Chapter Two

  L ucas Hernandez’ wet face was bathed in the dim light of dawn as he gently bobbed up-and-down on his surfboard. Despite his lean build and clean-shaved looks, there was a rougher, almost darker edge to him. His eyes mostly revealed it - a stoic firmness and quiet confidence one might expect to find in those who worked highly demanding professions. He had recently turned thirty-six.

  Lucas remained saddled upright on his surfboard, watching the Californian sun creep over the pacific horizon, waves calmly rolling underneath him. He loved Manhattan beach at this hour of the morning for a number of reasons. The main one being there were fewer people to deal with. In a few hours, the entire stretch of beach would be jam-packed with locals and tourists. Trying to enjoy a surf on weekends during the summer holiday months was like trying to navigate a floating car park.

  Lucas’ train of thought was suddenly broken when his watch began beeping. He glanced down at it, then began paddling back towards shore.

  A variety of cable news broadcasts played simultaneously on a razor-thin TV screen as Lucas, now wearing his Air Force ABU fatigues, chugged down a freshly made protein smoothie in his apartment’s kitchen.

  Stocks in the U.S. space defense and private aerospace industries had risen due to the government voicing concerns over the recent announcement of a joint Chinese and Russian expedition to Mars. Despite publicly claiming it was a peaceful scientific mission to survey potential colony sites, the higher echelons of U.S. intelligence suspected that was a blatant lie. Both countries had a long history of expressing their military ambitions for the red planet.

  Lucas drained his glass, rinsed it in the sink, then waved his hand at the TV to switch it off. As he went to grab his cap and car keys, he caught sight of a framed photo hanging on the wall of his living room.

  He walked over to the wall, which was richly decorated with photos, as well as Air Force medals and awards. He clipped one off the wall, studying it affectionately.

  The photo showed Lucas dressed in a futuristic pilot jumpsuit, standing in front of a sleek, next-gen fighter jet. The aircraft’s design looked as if someone had successfully mated an F-35 with an SR-71 Blackbird.

  Standing beside him was a female pilot, his RIO navigator. Her name was Amelia Dolan. She was early thirties and wore the same jumpsuit as Lucas. Her arm was loosely slung around his shoulders, and both of them were smiling proudly.

  “Miss you, gunny,” Lucas whispered as he carefully placed the photo back on the wall. That’s when there was a firm knock at the door. Lucas headed over to view the intercom.

  Two SECFOR officers were standing in the hallway outside. Aside from their blue fatigues and distinct insignia displaying the Defensor Fortis motto, Lucas figured they were from a nearby Air Base Defense Battalion. That still did not explain why two MPs were standing at his front door. He was probably in trouble for something. If that was indeed the case, it hardly surprised him. Trouble often had a way of finding him. Growing up in rural California, his father once joked to a neighbor that his son was always in the shit for one thing or another. The only question was the varying degree of depth.

  Lucas opened the door and gave the officers a polite nod. “Morning, officers. Can I help you?”

  One of the officers returned the gesture, although his face was an expressionless mask. “Sir, we need you to come with us.”

  “OK… can I ask under whose orders?”

  “Sir, I’m afraid that’s classified.”

  “Classified? Ah— well, then just give me a minute to grab my—”

  “Sir, we need you to come with us now. You won’t be needing anything.”

  “Guys, come on. I’m not going to run, if that’s— look, I’ll be one second.”

  The officer turned to his colleague and gave a firm nod, then stepped back.

  As he did so, the other officer raised a small pistol of some kind and fired it. It coughed like a silenced handgun.

  The last thing Lucas remembered before collapsing to the floor was a sharp sting at the base of his neck.

  Chapter Three

  L ucas’ eyes opened groggily. The roar of an engine could be heard, which wasn’t doing his throbbing head any favors. He felt as if he’d just been awoken from a twenty-year coma.

  Then, he felt the sudden jolt of movement. Was he in a plane, a train, or some type of vehicle? Hard to tell at this point.

  He took another moment to gather himself, wiping the beaded sweat from his forehead. Wherever he was, it was hot and dry. As his surroundings came into view, he realized he was seated in the middle of an old school bus. But there was no view outside. Everything was dark. It quickly became apparent as to why. Each window had been completely blacked out.

  However, he was not alone in here.

  Five other passengers were seated around him; three males, and two females. They all seemed to be coming back to consciousness at the same time he was. He traded confused looks with some of them. Some just stared at him, slack jawed.

  Brakes screeched in protest as the vehicle began to slow, coming to an eventual halt.

  The accordion doors at the front of the bus peeled open and three armed guards stepped aboard. Lucas could immediately tell they were not SECFOR officers. Their black uniforms displayed no rank or insignia. They were also wielding MP-5s, which were not standard-issue for the armed forces. Lucas
could only draw upon the conclusion that these guys were part of some private security apparatus - which made the entire situation feel even more sinister.

  “Let’s go, people!” yelled the lead guard. “Single-file! Move it!”

  Lucas stood with the others and headed out into the scorching heat of the Nevada desert.

  “Keep moving! The guard barked. “Eyes straight ahead! Do not stop until you are told to!”

  Squinting from the harsh glare of the sun, Lucas’ eyes stayed locked ahead. They were out in the middle of a dry lakebed somewhere.

  Up ahead, there was a sprawling network of aircraft runways surrounding a huge, sand-colored hangar door. It appeared to be embedded into the side of a mountain. Aside from the infamous Area 51, and the surrounding test ranges, Lucas had heard rumors from some fellow test pilots about another mysterious underground facility out here, near the northern edge of Groom Lake. Its official name was Site Four. But it was more commonly referred to as Dreamland .

  Lucas sat in a small, windowless interview room, sipping on a cup of water. He blew out a tired sigh and glanced at his watch. It was late afternoon. He’d been here quite some time and was beyond famished.

  The door suddenly opened, and Lieutenant General Hank Coleman strode in. He wore the official Service Dress Uniform, and the left side of his chest bristled with the type of service medals and badges one would expect from Air Force brass. Seeing Coleman’s familiar uniform, alongside his steel-grey buzz-cut and granite jaw, gave Lucas a slight sense of comfort. For now, at least.

  He immediately stood and saluted the three-star General.

  “At ease,” Coleman said while taking a seat opposite Lucas. His voice was husky and dry.

  Lucas sat, hoping some answers as to why he was here would finally be granted to him.

  “I must apologize for the cloak and dagger routine this morning.”

  “I’ve been sitting in this room for nearly an entire day, sir.”