Red Station

TWENTY-EIGHT

It was Jordan Conway’s draw to fetch water. The day promised to be a long one. It wasn’t fully light yet, but he knew the feel of the air enough now to be able to judge the conditions. They had picked up a satellite reading of the weather forecast in the last radio burst at midnight. It promised a brief spell of humidity before turning colder. This close to water, they would be at the mercy of the last of the midges, flies and mosquitoes, all vying for a final bite of human skin.

This time tomorrow, they’d probably be freezing their asses off.

He gently cleared a gummy throat and relished being down by the water, where it would be cooler. He edged forward until he drew level with Doug Rausing, who was on watch.

‘OK, boss,’ he breathed. ‘We good to go?’

Rausing nodded without taking his eye away from the monocular’s padded eyecup. ‘We’re clear. Nothing moving bigger than a fox, no change to the terrain. You set?’

‘Yep. You want anything from the deli?’

‘Some popcorn would be good,’ replied Rausing, with a dark smile. ‘If they don’t have any, bring me some chips.’

‘You got it. Pay me when I get back.’ Conway secured the collapsible water container to his belt and slid away to the edge of their hide.

He studied the ground for a full five minutes before moving out, checking for wildlife. Animals were the best indicators of intruders; when someone alien moved in, the wildlife moved out or went quiet. Like they would when he began moving, although not, he hoped, at the same time. A few birds were skimming over the rough grass, and a couple of hares squatted a hundred yards off, heads down and munching. Some crows were in the trees by the lake, arguing the toss as usual. Apart from that, it looked good. He wondered whether Bronson and Capel, the other two Delta men, were watching. Maybe he’d see one of them down by the lake on water duty. They could have a chat, catch up on old times.

He looked up to where a few late stars showed between the clouds, and wondered briefly about the sky cover that was supposed to be up there, watching over them. They were probably brewing coffee and having breakfast about now, changing shift in their long hours spent patrolling while the cameras sent back images to base. And above them would be the satellites, forever circling, taking pictures of the aircraft taking pictures.

Seconds later he was moving, belly down and making his way carefully towards the lake. It was a 250-yard trip, mostly downhill, a gentle slope over undulating grass. There were a couple of gullies he could use, dead ground forged by decades of water coursing down to the lake, and some low scrub where he could take a look around without standing out. As long as he didn’t run into trouble, it would take about an hour to complete the trip there and back. But there was no hurry.