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"Go for it," Ashton said.
«« »»
Fifteen minutes later, Wentz hauled himself out of the OEV's airlock, cumbersome as a tortoise
in the bulky white EVA suit. What a rip-off, he thought. I'm the first human being to walk on
Mars...and no one will ever know. He skipped forward away from the craft, each step lifting him
inches off the surface. In a gravitational field thirty-eight percent less than earth, clouds of dust
looked like bizarre smoke trailing behind his footfalls. He bounced more than walked toward the
tractored probe.
Once he got there, he almost felt disappointed. The probe didn't look like much: a reflective box
on treads.
"I'm here," he radioed back to Ashton. "This thing doesn't look like much of a big deal."
"It cost the Russians and Japanese the equivalent of a hundred million dollars, and it cost
fourteen billion to get it here. They've spent an additional twenty billion to retrieve it."
"Ouch!" Wentz replied. "And now I'm gonna blow it up with a demo charge that probably cost
the Army ten bucks. This has to be the most outrageous act of vandalism in the history of
humankind."
"That's right," Ashton agreed in his earpiece. "And you're the perpetrator!"
"Thanks." Wentz lowered to his knees, fumbling for his carry-satchel. "The ground here is sort of
shiny."
"Frozen noble gasses, sublimated argon, probably some good old-fashioned ice," Ashton
responded through crackles of mild static.
"Ice, huh? Too bad we didn't bring some Johnny Black and a couple of glasses."
His heavily gloved hands began to remove his demo gear. First came the cone-shaped, olive-drab
bomb itself, the size of a coffee thermos. Stenciled letters read: CHARGE, DEMOLITION,
SHAPED (ONE) 2.2 POUNDS, PROPERTY OF U.S. ARMY MUNITIONS COMMAND. Then
he removed a short coil of wire connected to a standard Herco-Tube blasting cap, and a small
box-shaped timer with a knob. He placed the charge on the probe, connected the proper wires.
"I think we're ready for the show," he said.
"Set the timer for thirty minutes, then come back."
His bulky hand reached for the broad timer knob but stopped just short of touching it. He was
looking up toward the nearest ridge.
Something glinted. "Wait a sec, I see something...near the "
"It's probably just carbonaceous deposits," Ashton returned. "Forget about it. Come on back."
Wentz squinted through the gold-flaked NASA face-shield. "No, no, it's... I'm gonna check it
out."
"Negative, Jack!" Ashton objected. "It could be a plate crack! It could be an ice shelf! You could
fall in!"
"I'll take my chances."
Ashton's voice shrilled through the static. "Jack damn it! No! You're violating your orders!"
Fuck orders, Wentz thought.
He bounced away from the probe, moving sluggishly toward the ridge. Once at the edge, he
stopped completely, staring down.
"God," he muttered when he realized what he'd seen glinting between the crags.
It was another OEV.
⬠
CHAPTER 12
Ashton watched Wentz's progress through the range-finder. She clenched a moment, grit her
teeth, then shuddered as she reached for another time-released Duramorph. Until recently, she'd
been able to control the pain fairly well but now it was just getting worse. Though the doctors
recommended higher doses, Ashton wouldn't hear of it. I'm not going to turn myself into a junkie,
she vowed to herself.
The drug kicked in, lifting her. By now, Wentz was out of radio range, and by the time she'd
composed herself and refocused the range-finder...
"Damn it."
Wentz had already climbed over the edge of the ridge.
«« »»
Wentz's mind was strangely blank as he climbed onto the second OEV, opened the top-hatch, and
lowered himself into the air-lock. The hatch sealed shut above his head and then the chamber
decompressed with a familiar swoosh.
Only when he stepped through the egress was he able to think, Somebody's got some explaining
to do...
He stepped into the cabin, then hit the slidelocks and removed his helmet. The flight seats were
empty, but before he could turn around
"It's...Wentz, isn't it? 41st Test Wing out at Andrews?" a voice queried behind him. "I saw you
fly the upgraded 16s at the Paris Air Show in 88 damn good flying."
Stifled, Wentz turned around.
"Welcome to the Tharsus Bulge, Wentz," the voice continued. "My name is "
Wentz could only stare. He already knew. "You're Willard Farrington, U.S. Marine Corp," he
croaked. A pause stretched through the cabin. "Operator ⬠ÜA.'"
The man looked haggard in his S-4 white jumpsuit as he lay on a fold-down strap bunk. An
unkempt beard, trace specks of hair cropping up around the sides of a bald head. Opened
packages of MRE's lay like litter about the bunk.
"They told me you were dead," Wentz said flatly. "They told me there was only one of these
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